Chapter 10 - Blood in the Parking Lot
The static from the wall speaker hissed ominously, lingering in the cramped interrogation room like a physical specter. Agent Miller froze, his pen hovering just above his notepad. He spun around, staring up at the small white speaker box before bolting toward the door without uttering a single word.
Marcus stopped in the doorway, his handcuffed wrists straining against the two guards holding him. A dark, unsettling smile crept across his face. He didn't look shocked by the news of Dr. Sterling’s murder; he looked like a man watching a script play out precisely as he had rehearsed it.
“Looks like someone else didn't want the good doctor talking, Clara,” Marcus murmured, his voice laced with malicious amusement as the guards roughly hauled him out into the hallway, slamming the heavy steel door shut behind them.
Clara remained seated at the stainless-steel table, her hands clenched tightly into fists in her lap, ignoring the sharp pain radiating from her bandaged right palm. Her mind raced at a terrifying speed. Dr. Sterling was dead. If Marcus was in federal custody the entire time, he couldn't have pulled the trigger in the parking lot. That meant there was a third player on the board—someone else who knew about the altered toxicology report, someone who possessed the power to silence the doctor before he could testify.
The heavy door flew open again a moment later. Agent Miller rushed back inside, his face pale and covered in a fine sheen of nervous sweat. He slammed a fresh tablet onto the table, spinning it around so Clara could see the digital feed of a body-cam video.
The screen showed a dark, rain-slicked federal parking lot illuminated by the harsh glare of security lights. A sleek black sedan sat crookedly against a concrete pillar, its driver-side window completely shattered into a million tiny glass fragments—reminding Clara sickeningly of the penthouse coffee table from just hours ago. Inside the car, an elderly man in a rumpled tweed jacket slumped over the steering wheel, blood pooling darkly across the leather upholstery.
“Shot twice at point-blank range,” Miller said, his voice hard, lacking the professional detachment he had maintained earlier.
“The medical examiner puts the time of death at approximately ten minutes ago—while you and Marcus were sitting right here in this room arguing over his fake affidavit.”
Clara looked up from the screen, meeting Miller’s accusing gaze with a chillingly steady stare.
“Then it’s obvious,” Clara said, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper.
“It wasn't Marcus. And it certainly wasn't me. There is someone else outside these walls controlling every move, pulling the strings of both our lives.”
Miller slammed his hand flat against the stainless-steel table, making the metal ring loudly.
“Don't play games with me, Mrs. Vance! Who else knew about Dr. Sterling coming in for questioning today? Only you, Marcus, and—” Miller stopped mid-sentence, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.
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“Elena.”
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