Chapter 4 - The Family CollapsesBy the third day of the federal investigation, the united front of the Bennett family had completely shattered under the weight of mounting indictments and inescapable forensic evidence.
Grant and Diane Bennett were being held without bail in separate federal holding facilities across town, their high-priced defense attorneys having already abandoned them when retainer checks bounced due to the asset freeze.
In Interview Room C, it was Brooke’s turn.
Brooke—the younger sister who had stood in my kitchen on New Year's Eve recording my humiliation on her smartphone while her father pressed a burning cigarette into my pregnant belly—looked thoroughly pathetic. Gone were the designer clothes, the manicured nails, and the arrogant social media influencer persona.
She sat across from Detective Miller and me as I pushed open the heavy steel door and walked slowly into the room.
Brooke flinched, shrinking back against her chair. "Claire... please. I didn't touch you! Ryan held your arms, Dad burned you! I was just recording!"
I stopped two feet from the table, looking down at her with a chilling, absolute calm.
"You recorded me being assaulted in my own home, Brooke," I said softly, my voice carrying the weight of a sledgehammer. "You laughed while your mother watched with her wineglass raised. And according to the financial records pulled from your personal iPad, your boutique clothing line was 100% funded by monthly wire transfers originating from my embezzled corporate dividends."
Brooke burst into heavy, theatrical tears, burying her face in her hands. "Dad made us do it! He said if we didn't play along, Ryan would cut us off from the trust fund! We didn't know about Evelyn! We swear we didn't know!"
"You knew enough to keep your mouth shut," I replied, pulling a document from my folder and tossing it onto the table in front of her. "Sign that."
Brooke peered through her fingers, trembling. "What... what is this?"
"It’s a full and binding legal confession detailing your role in the financial conspiracy, the concealment of stolen assets, and your witness account of the assault on New Year's Eve," I said evenly. "If you sign it and testify truthfully against Grant and Ryan in federal court, my legal team will recommend leniency—probation and community service instead of five to ten years in a federal penitentiary."
Brooke stared at the paper as if it were a venomous snake.
"And if I don't?" she whispered.
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"Then you share a cellblock with your mother," I answered without blinking an eye. "Choose wisely, Brooke. You’ve spent your whole life letting the men in your family make decisions for you. Now it’s your turn."
With shaking fingers, Brooke picked up the pen, signed her name at the bottom of the page, and burst into uncontrollable sobs.
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