Chapter 8: The Interrogation Room
In the sterile confines of the precinct interrogation room, the air was thick with the scent of cheap pine cleaner and tension. Officer Miller sat across the steel table from Clara, a single manila folder resting between them. The official recording light blinked a steady, rhythmic red. Miller had pulled strings to secure this off-the-record conversation, risking his own badge to understand the vast conspiracy unfolding beneath his feet. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Your lawyer is furious, Clara. He tried to stop me from coming in here. But I read the preliminary discovery motion you filed in court yesterday. You’re swinging at ghosts unless you have something concrete to back up these embezzlement claims against Eleanor Sterling." Clara looked up, her dark eyes steady and unreadable. The orange jumpsuit hung loosely on her frame, yet her posture remained unbroken.
"I’m not swinging at ghosts, Officer Miller," Clara replied, her voice low and even. "For five years, I documented every irregular financial transaction, every falsified medical report, and every offshore wire transfer authorized from the Sterling estate terminal. Eleanor didn't just frame me for theft—she used my employee profile as a digital decoy to cover up the fact that she liquidated her late husband’s entire estate to fund a private acquisition abroad." Miller frowned, flipping open the folder to reveal a stack of printouts. "The digital forensic team at headquarters went through your terminal logs, Clara. They pulled the exact IP address and user credentials used to transfer those five million dollars in bearer bonds. It came straight from your login. Hard to argue with digital signatures." Clara let out a soft, humorless sigh. "Anyone with administrative clearance can spoof an IP address within a closed local area network, Miller. And Mrs. Gable has master administrative rights across the entire estate server. Check the physical access logs for the master terminal at 2:15 AM on Tuesday morning. I was asleep in my quarters on the third floor. But Mrs. Gable’s security card was swiped at the study door."
Miller stared at her, weighing the logistics of her claim against the immense political and financial power wielded by the Sterling family within the city. "If I pull those physical logs, Clara, and they’ve been wiped—which corporate security systems are notoriously good at doing—my career is finished. I’ll be directing traffic in the industrial district by sundown." Clara reached across the table, her cuffed hands moving with deliberate slowness as she pressed her fingertips against the cold steel surface. "You became a police officer to protect people, Thomas—not to serve as a collection agency for wealthy criminals," she said softly, using his first name for the very first time. Miller flinched slightly at the direct appeal to his conscience. He closed the folder with a sharp thud, standing up from the chair without a word, knowing that the clock was ticking down to a confrontation he could no longer avoid.
