Suddenly, the music screeched to a halt. The steam cleared, dissolving back into the sterile grey walls of the interrogation room.
When she opened them, the cold grey room was gone. She was no longer wearing her drab, oversized wool cardigan. Instead, she was dressed in a pristine, tailored 1940s trench coat. The harsh fluorescent hum had been replaced by the rich, sweeping violins of a classic Hollywood orchestra.
Susan blinked. Detective Lancing was still staring at her, her pen poised over her notepad.