The folder slapped down on the desk with a sound that echoed throughout the room.  The woman across the metal expanse shifted uneasily, the handcuffs encircling her wrists clinked softly against the desk.
The agent, dark and foreboding, flipped the folder open and withdrew two documents crammed full of cramped information.  He carelessly tossed them in front of her as he sat in one of the chairs opposite of her in a fluid movement.
The woman smiled nervously as she reached out to take the papers. Her hands trembled.
“I,” she started as she scanned the documents, tongue darting out to wet her lips.  “I know this looks bad but-”
The agent slammed his palms against the desk and ripped the papers from her hands, the cool facade that he had kept since entering the room finally broken.
“This is more than bad, sweetheart.  We have reason to believe that you are behind the recent string of murders plaguing our city.  I want a confession, now.” He said.
The woman flinched as he stood swiftly, almost knocking over his chair in the process.
“I’m not murdering anybody.” She protested,  “Not anyone real anyway.”
“Oh, so your victims aren’t people to you?” The agent snarled.  “Are you that sick and twisted that people have become something less?  Some kind of animal?”
“No, that’s not what I meant, and I wasn’t going to murder anyone!”
“Then why did we find these search results when we went through your computer?  Let’s see, lethal stabbing locations, the average temperature human bodies burn, torture.”  The woman buried her face into her hands as the agent read title after title, each more incriminating than the last.
“Stop,” she muttered as the agent read another sickening heading.
The agent shot her a look of disgust.  “Not too keen now that you hear it out loud, are you?” He questioned.  “Like it better when you were just reading about it?  You monster.”
The woman kicked back her chair, grabbed the folder and flung it across the room, shouting, “I. AM. A. WRITER!  Okay?  It is basically my job to think up new and exciting ways to kill someone.  Get it?  I get paid to kill people- the more gruesome the better in some cases.  I do kill people, but not real people.  Not people who actually live and breathe and leave a carbon footprint.”
The woman remained upright, shaking slightly, as the agent in front of her processed the information.
“You’re a writer.” He said slowly, testing how the words tasted on his tongue.  “So the reason for the searches was to...” He trailed off.
The woman sighed as she picked up the sentence, “To find out how hard it was going to be to kill my main character.”
“Is there any way that I can verify that you are indeed a writer and not actually a serial killer?”
“Almost the same thing,” the woman muttered under her breath.  “You could read my books.” She offered, eyes brightening as she perked up.  “I think you might like them, actually.  Have you ever heard of the Firstborn Chronicles?”
The agent sighed and plucked up a paper that had settled on his shoulder after it had escaped during the folder’s unplanned trip into the outer reaches of the interrogation room.  “Try not to kill any real people, ma’am, and have a good day.”