Chapter 7
The morning sun cast long, golden rays across the city skyline, illuminating the bustling concrete canyons of downtown. David sat across the heavy metal interrogation table from Detective Marcus Vance—no relation—a seasoned investigator with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. Spread out before the detective were Sarah’s printed financial audits, the raw video files on an encrypted flash drive, and the paramedics' preliminary welfare report detailing Lily’s compromised respiratory history.
Detective Vance looked up from the documents, rubbing his chin as he digested the overwhelming mountain of evidence. "Mr. Vance, I’ve seen some cold domestic setups in my twenty years on the force, but this... this is calculated on an entirely different level. Your wife didn't just neglect the child; she was orchestrating a slow medical assassination."
"Can you keep her without bail?" David asked, his voice strained from lack of sleep. "Her lawyer is pushing for a release hearing by noon."
"Normally, a domestic assault charge with mutual visible injuries makes denying bail difficult," Detective Vance admitted, tapping a finger against the stack of financial papers. "However, once we attach these bank records showing systematic embezzlement, international money laundering, and the substitution of medical-grade oxygen with industrial contaminants—which our lab technicians are currently testing—the charges escalate to attempted premeditated murder and grand larceny. That changes everything. She’s not going anywhere."
David exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally for the first time since the previous evening. "What happens next?"
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"We formally charge her within the hour," Detective Vance said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. "And we execute search warrants on her personal storage lockers, her vehicle, and her private communication devices. I suspect you’ll find she has accomplices who helped her funnel those funds."
As David walked out of the precinct into the crisp morning air, his phone buzzed in his coat pocket. It was an alert from his smart home security system. A live video feed popped up on his screen, showing the heavy oak front doors of his penthouse opening. Panic surged through him until he recognized the familiar face stepping inside—it wasn't an intruder; it was Clara’s mother, Evelyn, who had flown in from Boston the moment Sarah had alerted her to the crisis.
