“My motivations?” I say suspiciously. “What about them?”
“Oh, come on,” Cassandra snaps. “You need to succeed. It’s the thing God put you on this earth for. Everything you strive for, everything to do every day, you have to complete and it has to be perfect. You’re a perfectionist.”
“Really?” I say mildly, as I stash the file in my hands in the drawer below my desk. “Well, Ms. Fitch, since we are on the subject of motivation, I have something to say about you.”
“Oh?” Cassandra says, looking, for the first time, fearful. “And what drives me?”
“The exact same thing as me,” I reply, as a sly grin slides onto my face. “You need to succeed as well. Your fear of failure is like mine in many ways—only you don’t care whether you appear vulnerable or not, something we don’t have in common. I strive for the top, you dive for the low.”
“That’s not true!” she snaps angrily. “I do strive for the top!”
“Do you?” I say, my smile disappearing. “Then why did you shoot Preston Orlando? Why did you take that gun, a GLOCK 19, from Terrence Donovan’s car, and take your ex’s life? That isn’t shooting for the top, no pun intended. That is shooting for the ultimate low.”
All color drains from her face as I say this. She opens and closes her mouth several times before finding her voice again. Whispering, she says, “He deserved it.”
“Did he?” I say coldly. “Does anyone?”
She does not reply. My voice is icy as I continue.
“Here’s what I think happened. Driven to succeed, you try constantly to end up on top, even bribing your boss for promotion. That doesn’t work, so you move on to plan B. You begin blackmailing Preston Orlando, your ex-boyfriend and co-worker. Notice he’s the top journalist for The Wall Street Journal. That doesn’t work, and you see that you don’t have a plan C. It’s over, you think. And, to dramatize your overemotional, overbearing, selfish conclusion, you shoot the one person who shoved you to the side in the first place. And so, you hit your absolute lowest, because you failed.”
She begins to sob. Tears have been threatening her eyes, but only now have they actually spilled over. I decide to finish this.
“Cassandra Fitch, you are under arrest for the murder of Preston Orlando.”
I stand up, leave her there sobbing, and walk out of the room.

Thanks in advance!
Best of luck and wishes,
~Red Jane