Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The county jail sat on the industrial edge of the city, a grey concrete monolith surrounded by chain-link fences topped with razor wire.
Inside Interview Room B, Brooke Vance sat alone at a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor.
She had been stripped of her designer blazer and high heels. She now wore an oversized orange jumpsuit that swallowed her thin frame. Her expensive extensions were tangled, her mascara smeared across her cheekbones, and her hands shook violently as she chewed her thumbnail down to the cuticle.
The door buzzed open. Detective Miller walked in, carrying a thin manila folder, followed by Marcus Vance, who was acting as an observer representing the victim’s estate.
Brooke looked up, her eyes flashing with defensive venom.
“Where is Dad’s lawyer?” she snapped. “I told you people, I am not answering another question until Arthur Henderson gets here! And why is *his* brother here?” She pointed a shaking finger at Marcus.
Detective Miller pulled out a metal chair and sat down across from her.
“Mr. Henderson isn’t coming, Brooke,” Miller said calmly. “He’s currently trying to find a bail bondsman for your father, who was arrested three hours ago at St. Jude’s Hospital.”
Brooke froze. Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Dad was arrested? On what charges? That’s insane! Dad didn't do anything!”
“Your father’s charges mirror yours,” Miller replied, opening the folder. “Conspiracy. Fraud. Accessory to battery. But we’re not here to talk about Richard. We’re here to talk about you, Brooke.”
Miller slid three glossy 8x10 photographs across the metal table.
Brooke flinched as she looked down.
The first photograph was an overhead angle of the kitchen in Richard’s house. A forensic team had dusted the granite island with luminescent powder. A clear, smeared handprint showed exactly where I had gripped the edge of the counter while being shoved, accompanied by blood droplets on the slate floor.
The second photograph was a high-resolution still from the security camera at the Chase Bank branch on Elm Street. It showed Brooke at the teller counter at 8:05 AM, sliding my driver’s license across the marble top while wearing large sunglasses.
The third photograph was the signature card from the wire authorization.
“You’re looking at ten to twenty years, Brooke,” Detective Miller said, leaning forward. “Class B felony assault on a pregnant person resulting in emergency surgical delivery. Aggravated identity theft. Grand larceny. Computer tampering.”
“It was an accident!” Brooke shrieked, slamming her cuffed hands against the table. “Claire is lying! She made a scene because she didn't want to sign the papers! She threw herself onto the floor!”
“The trauma surgeons disagree,” Miller said coolly. “The medical report from Dr. Morrison documents blunt-force contusions on Claire’s lower left abdomen consistent with impact against a rigid 90-degree surface—like the edge of your father’s kitchen island. It also documents defensive bruising on her forearms where you grabbed her to force the folder into her hands.”
Brooke began to hyperventilate, rocking back and forth in the steel chair. “She was supposed to sign it! It wasn't fair! Grandma left her that property because Grandma hated me! I’m the one who went to business school! I’m the one who built a real brand! Claire works at a stupid marketing agency! Why did she deserve two million dollars?”
Marcus spoke for the first time, his voice cutting through her panic like ice.
“Because your grandmother knew who you were, Brooke,” Marcus said. “She saw what you and your parents were doing fifteen years ago. She knew you were thieves.”
Brooke glared at Marcus, tears of rage spilling down her face. “You don't know anything about us!”
“I know you owe seven hundred thousand dollars to private lenders across three states,” Marcus said, pulling a financial summary from his folder. “I know you forged Claire’s name on a credit line three years ago to finance your boutique opening in Scottsdale. I know you’ve been using her Social Security number to lease company vehicles. We found the digital footprints on your laptop this afternoon, Brooke. Detective Miller’s cyber unit executed a search warrant on your penthouse apartment at two o'clock.”
Brooke stopped rocking. Her face drained of all color.
“My laptop?” she whispered.
“Everything is there,” Marcus said softly. “The password lists. The forged PDF templates of Claire’s signature. The emails between you and your father discussing how to provoke Claire into a fight so she would leave the house without taking the blue folder, followed by your mother’s plan to use her biometrics while she was incapacitated.”
Brooke stared at the table, her breath hitching in ragged, stuttering gasps. The web of deceit she had spent years spinning had collapsed in on itself, trapping her completely.
“What... what do I do?” she whimpered, looking up at Miller like a frightened child.
“You’re going to plead guilty,” Marcus said before the detective could answer. “You are going to sign a full, unreserved confession acknowledging the theft, the assault, and the identity fraud. You are going to sign over every remaining asset in Apex Holdings to restitution. And in exchange, Detective Miller *might* recommend that your sentences run concurrently instead of consecutively.”
“And if I don't?” Brooke cried.
Miller leaned in close, his voice chillingly quiet.
“If you don't, we go to trial. And when twelve jurors look at photographs of a three-pound baby in a NICU incubator hooked to a ventilator, right next to photos of you spending twenty thousand dollars of stolen cash at an upscale boutique... you won’t see the outside of a correctional facility until your niece is in college.”
May you like
Brooke collapsed forward, burying her face against the cold steel table, sobbing hysterically as the reality of her ruined life slammed down upon her.
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