"Laurel Fox. Ten years ago, the alley behind the college district. The victim had three fingers hacked off. You going to own up to that or not?"
I shook my head.
"No. I didn't hurt anyone."
He turned his laptop screen to face me.
"Still want to play tough? These are printed chat logs from the group, provided by the person who reported you."
I leaned in for a closer look.
The group was called "Fox Crew — Core Members."
In the chat history, an account with my photo as its avatar was giving orders.
"[Laurel Fox]: Tonight. The alley out back. Cripple that bleach-blond punk who doesn't know his place."
"[Nelson Whitney]: Got it, Laurel. The knife's ready."
"[Russ Pruitt]: I'll keep lookout. Already got someone to hack the surveillance."
I looked at the chat logs and nearly laughed out loud.
"Officer, these don't even have account IDs. Two burner phones and a couple of swapped avatars—anyone could fake this in five minutes."
Detective Mercer tapped open a photo.
"What about this?"
In the photo, I was wearing my high school uniform, holding up a machete nearly half a meter long. The blade was smeared with something red.
The background was the dim streetlight in the alley behind the college district.