Chapter 2 - The Interrogation Room
The fluorescent lights of the precinct interrogation room hummed with a low, headache-inducing drone. The table between them was scarred gray laminate, scratched by years of handcuffs and restless suspects.
David sat rigidly in a hard plastic chair, his tuxedo jacket slung over the back, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Across from him sat Detective Marcus Vance, a veteran investigator with tired eyes and graying temples, flipping through a thin file that was growing thicker by the minute.
“Your son’s name is Ethan, right?” Detective Vance asked, looking up from a collection of photocopied documents.
“Yes,” David replied, his voice raspy. He had spent the last two hours answering questions, coordinating with his bank’s fraud department, and ensuring Ethan was resting safely at his sister Hannah’s house.
“I gotta tell you, Mr. Matthews,” Vance said, leaning back in his metal chair and crossing his arms. “When dispatch radioed me about a wedding interrupted by an eight-year-old, I thought it was a custody dispute or a bitter ex-wife pulling a stunt. But the kid... your boy is sharper than half my rookie squad.”
“He found her ledger,” David said, staring down at his calloused hands. The realization still burned in his chest like acid. “In her leather tote bag. She left it unzipped on the guest room bed while she was getting fitted into her veil on Thursday. Ethan went in to drop off a drawing he wanted her to have. He saw the notebook.”
“And what was in that notebook?” Vance prompted, though he already knew the contents.
“Aliases,” David muttered. “Social security numbers belonging to deceased individuals. Bank routing numbers in the Cayman Islands. Notes on my personal trust accounts, my corporate holdings, and my late wife Grace’s life insurance payout.”
Vance nodded slowly. He slid a glossy eight-by-ten photograph across the laminate table. It showed a mugshot of a woman with dyed dark hair, smiling faintly under harsh lighting.
“We ran her fingerprints through the national database using Ethan’s descriptions and the aliases he remembered from the ledger,” Vance said. “Her real name is Clara Sterling. Or it was, before she skipped bail in Cook County three years ago. She specializes in targeting grieving widowers with minor children—men with liquid assets and emotional vulnerabilities. She plays the doting fiancée, gets her name onto secondary bank accounts or trusts under the guise of ‘protecting the family’s future,’ and then, poof. The day after the wedding, she cleans out the accounts and vanishes.”
David felt a cold sickness rise in his throat. If Ethan hadn't spoken up... if his little boy hadn't possessed the courage to stand before a room of two hundred people and blow up his father’s wedding... by Monday morning, David would have been legally stripped of everything he owned, and Ethan would have been left in the care of a professional criminal.
“Where is she now?” David asked, his voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register.
“Holding cell B,” Vance replied. “She’s refusing to speak without a high-priced defense attorney. But with the physical evidence Ethan recovered from her vehicle and the forged identity documents we pulled from her luggage at the bridal suite, she’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Bail is going to be denied.”
David stood up abruptly, grabbing his tuxedo jacket. “Can I see her?”
May you like
Vance looked up, studying David’s face. He saw the raw pain, the lingering shock, but beneath it all, he saw a father’s fury.
“Ten minutes, Mr. Matthews,” Vance said, standing up and unlocking the heavy observation door. “And keep it civil. I don't want to add assault charges to your weekend.”
