Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
The holding cells beneath the county courthouse smelled of stale bleach, cheap disinfectant, and unadulterated terror.
Victor Carter sat at the center of the stainless-steel interrogation table, his hands cuffed tightly to the steel loop bolted into the center of the surface. The smug, arrogant CEO who had strutted through our Lincoln Park estate holding a wooden cane like a scepter was gone. In his place sat a pathetic, shivering man in a rumpled orange jumpsuit, his hair matted, his eyes bloodshot and hollowed out by twenty-four hours of cold, uninterrupted panic.
The heavy steel door swung open with a loud, echoing clank.
Two guards escorted a tall, impeccably dressed woman into the room.
It wasn't a police detective. It was me.
I wore a sharp, ivory silk pantsuit, my posture tall and unyielding, my head held high. A pristine designer trench coat draped over my shoulders, and my bruised cheek was carefully concealed beneath a light layer of professional cosmetics, though the cold, steely resolve in my eyes needed no mask.
Victor snapped his head up as the door closed. When he saw me—the woman he had beaten unconscious, the wife he had treated like a servant—standing before him without a single trace of fear, his face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and hysterical desperation.
"Emma...?" Victor croaked, his voice cracking like dry wood. He lunged forward, the handcuffs clinking loudly against the steel table as he strained against the chain. "Emma, thank God! You have to help me! You have to tell these insane people that it was just a misunderstanding! A marital dispute! Families argue, right? We have babies coming, Emma! We’re a family!"
I walked slowly around the table, my heels clicking rhythmically against the concrete floor, stopping just inches from his chair. I didn't say a word. I just looked down at him the way a scientist might look at an uninteresting specimen trapped under a microscope.
"A family," I repeated softly, the words dripping with icicles. "Is that what you called it when your father watched me collapse on the tile? Is that what you called it when your mother clapped her hands and asked you to hit me again so I would 'learn some respect'?"
Victor flinched, pulling back slightly. The bravado completely vanished, replaced by whimpering terror. "My parents... they're old, Emma! They don't know what they were saying! And Nora—Nora is just a kid, she didn't mean to record it—please, drop the charges! If you drop the charges, I’ll... I’ll let you stay in the house! I’ll let you raise the kids with my last name!"
I let out a cold, sharp laugh that echoed off the concrete walls.
"Your last name?" I leaned down, resting my hands on the edge of the table, bringing my face close enough for him to see the absolute contempt burning in my eyes. "Victor, as of six this morning, the Carter name no longer exists in the state of Illinois. Your company has been liquidated. Your bank accounts have been seized by federal receivers. Your parents' home was foreclosed upon three hours ago, and they are currently packing their meager belongings into cardboard boxes on the sidewalk while county bailiffs watch."
Victor stopped breathing. His mouth hung open, his eyes bulging as the full, catastrophic magnitude of my father’s vengeance crashed down upon him like a tidal wave.
"No..." he whispered, shaking his head frantically. "No, that's impossible... my father built that company... we’re elite... we’re untouchable..."
"You were never untouchable, Victor," I whispered, straightening up and brushing an invisible speck of dust from my lapel. "You were just borrowing power from a family you were too arrogant and stupid to investigate."
Just then, the heavy steel door opened again.
Marcus Sterling stepped into the room, holding a thick manila folder. He didn't look at Victor; he looked directly at me, offering a polite, professional nod.
"Mrs. Carter—pardon me, Miss Vance," Marcus corrected himself smoothly. "The federal magistrate has just signed the final indictments. In addition to the state domestic abuse charges, the Department of Justice has formally added federal racketeering and corporate embezzlement charges tied to Victor’s business operations. Total projected sentence: twenty-five years without parole."
Victor slumped forward, his forehead hitting the cold stainless-steel table with a dull thud. He began to sob—not tears of genuine remorse, but the ugly, pathetic wails of a spoiled child who had finally discovered that actions have permanent, irreversible consequences.
May you like
I turned my back on him, walking toward the heavy exit door without looking back once.
"Make sure he has a clear view of the window, Marcus," I said coldly as the door opened. "I want him to watch the tow trucks hauling away what’s left of his father’s legacy."
