Chapter 2 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the Central Precinct smelled of old coffee, floor wax, and the quiet despair of a thousand broken lives.
I sat on one side of the heavy metal table, my fingers wrapped around a styrofoam cup of lukewarm water that someone had handed me three hours ago. Across from me sat Detective Miller and a younger officer named Vance. They had spent the last two hours recording my formal statement, documenting every detail of the last three years: the financial abuse, the forced labor in the family hardware store, the systematic isolation, and finally, the horrific events of this morning.
"Let me make sure I have the timeline straight, Mrs. Holloway," Detective Miller said, tapping a pen against his notepad. "Your father, Warren Holloway, explicitly stated on the loading dock in front of multiple witnesses—including your fiancé and store employees—that they administered a sedative to your daughter because she was crying during your niece's beauty preparation?"
"Yes," I replied, my voice completely level. "He said, 'We only gave her enough to sleep.' My mother confirmed it by complaining that she was ruining Sadie's morning. And my sister, Tessa, admitted that my mother forced her to throw the medication bottle into the dumpster right alongside my child."
Detective Miller exchanged a grim look with Officer Vance. "Child endangerment, reckless endangerment, administration of a controlled substance to a minor, and attempted reckless homicide. Depending on what the toxicology panel reveals about the specific drug they used on a two-year-old, we could be looking at felony counts that carry decades in prison."
"Good," I said without blinking. "I want every single one of them charged."
Before Miller could respond, the heavy steel door of the interrogation room swung open. A local defense attorney named Marcus Thorne—a man whose firm was perpetually on retainer for my father's business disputes—strode into the room like he owned the building. He wore a sharp charcoal suit, a gold Rolex peeking out from his cuff, and a smug, condescending smile that made my stomach churn.
"Detective Miller," Thorne said smoothly, taking a seat beside an empty chair without being invited. "I represent Warren and Elaine Holloway. I’m told my clients are being held under suspicion of... what is it this time? A domestic misunderstanding?"
Miller didn't smile. He closed his notepad and looked up at the lawyer with icy disdain. "Mr. Thorne, your clients aren't being held for a misunderstanding. They’re being booked for aggravated child endangerment and drugging a two-year-old minor. We have multiple eyewitnesses, an audio-recorded admission, and hospital toxicology reports currently underway."
Thorne’s smug smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered his composure, adjusting his tie. "Ah. Family disputes always get blown out of proportion. A tired grandfather gives a fussy child a mild over-the-counter sleep aid to ensure everyone gets a peaceful night's rest before a family celebration, and suddenly the state is treating it like a cartel operation. We’ll post bail immediately and sort this out in family court."
"Over-the-counter?" I spoke up, my voice cutting through the small room like a razor blade.
Thorne turned his gaze toward me for the first time, his eyes sweeping over my simple clothes and the dark circles under my eyes with casual contempt. "Ah, Audrey. Your father tells me you’ve quite lost your temper this morning. Understandable, given the stress of the wedding, but—"
"It wasn't over-the-counter, Mr. Thorne," I interrupted, standing up from my chair so abruptly that the metal legs screeched against the linoleum floor. I leaned over the table, bringing my face inches from his. "The hospital is running a full panel right now. When it comes back showing prescription-grade tranquilizers administered to a toddler who weighs less than thirty pounds, let's see how fast your cheerful little speech holds up in front of a federal judge."
Thorne’s eyes narrowed. He recognized the look in my eyes—it wasn't the look of a hysterical, broken daughter. It was the look of a predator who had just been handed the keys to her enemies' cage.
"Where are they?" I asked, stepping back.
"They're being processed downstairs," Thorne said coldly, dropping his friendly facade. "And I advise you not to attempt contact, Mrs. Holloway, or we will file immediate restraining orders regarding your custody fitness."
"Custody fitness?" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh that echoed off the concrete walls. "Mr. Thorne, my grandfather left seventy percent of Holloway Home & Tool—and the entirety of the commercial real estate trust it sits on—to me in his will. My parents haven't owned the building, the stock, or the land in five years. They were just tenants living off my grace."
May you like
Thorne’s face drained of color. He stood up slowly. "What are you talking about?"
"Ask my father," I whispered, walking toward the door. "Ask him whose signature is required to keep the power running in that building. Because as of one hour ago, I instructed my legal counsel to shut off the mains."
