Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The fluorescent lights of the federal field office hummed with a monotonous, headache-inducing drone. The interrogation room was agonizingly small, smelling faintly of stale black coffee, cheap disinfectant, and decades of accumulated fear. A single two-way mirror occupied the entire length of the far wall, reflecting the cold stainless-steel table where Clara sat with her hands neatly folded. Her light blue dress had been replaced by a standard-issue gray detention jumpsuit, and a thick white bandage was wrapped securely around her bleeding right palm.
The heavy steel door swung open with a loud, metallic clatter. Agent Miller stepped inside, carrying a thick manila folder stamped with red confidential warnings. He was a tall, middle-aged man with sharp graying temples and tired eyes that had seen too much human misery. He dropped the folder onto the table with a heavy thud, pulling out a metal chair and sitting down heavily opposite Clara.
“Your lawyer is downstairs, Mrs. Vance,” Agent Miller said, his voice flat and professional as he opened the folder to reveal a series of printed financial spreadsheets and photographs of the shattered penthouse table.
“Though, given the volume of evidence you handed over via encrypted email before the raid, I’m not entirely sure you even need one.”
Clara didn't blink. She stared steadily across the table, her green eyes cold and calculating.
“I provided the leverage, Agent Miller. I didn't provide immunity,” she replied, her voice smooth and devoid of any nervousness.
“We had an agreement. The ledgers, the shell company accounts, the offshore wire logs—in exchange for full witness protection and the immediate freezing of all Vance Enterprises assets before Marcus can liquidate them.”
Agent Miller leaned forward, resting his forearms on the cold table. He studied her face closely, trying to find any crack in her facade, any sign of remorse or hidden panic.
“You let your husband abuse you for four years, Clara. You staged a public breakdown, orchestrated a federal raid, and watched a bullet rip through your co-conspirator’s shoulder without flinching once,” Miller said, narrowing his eyes.
“That doesn't sound like a victim seeking rescue. That sounds like a mastermind orchestrating a hostile takeover.”
A slow, chilling smile touched the corners of Clara’s lips. She tilted her head slightly, leaning into the harsh fluorescent light.
“When you’re trapped in a cage with a monster for four years, Agent, you don't learn how to cry,” Clara whispered, her voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that made the experienced federal investigator instinctively pull back.
“You learn how to sharpen your teeth.”
Miller opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp, urgent knock interrupted him. The door swung open halfway, and a junior agent leaned in, whispering something frantically into Miller’s ear. The color instantly drained from Agent Miller’s face. He looked back up at Clara with a look of absolute shock.
“What is it?” Clara asked, her smile fading into a look of cautious curiosity.
“Marcus just invoked his right to a closed federal deposition,” Miller said, his voice tight.
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“And he dropped a name that just turned this entire case upside down. He claims you weren't the victim, Clara. He claims you ordered the hit on your father five years ago.”
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