Chapter 9 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room was painfully cold, smelling of stale coffee, old paper, and profound despair. The single overhead fluorescent light flickered rhythmically, casting long, tired shadows across the gray metal table. Mark sat in the hard plastic chair, his wrists still aching from the heavy plastic zip-ties that had now been replaced by standard steel handcuffs bolted to a ring in the center of the table.
The heavy steel door swung open with a loud metallic squeak. Arthur Vance walked in, carrying a thick manila folder and two steaming paper cups of black coffee. He sat down opposite Mark, placing the folder squarely in the middle of the table without opening it.
"Coffee?" Vance asked casually, pushing one of the cups across the table.
Mark didn't touch it. He stared straight ahead at the concrete wall, his voice hollow. "Cut the act, Vance. What am I actually looking at? How much time?"
"If the financial fraud charges stick, combined with the unlawful confinement of your father and the child endangerment metrics noted by CPS, you're looking at a minimum of fifteen years," Vance said, his tone entirely professional, devoid of malice or sympathy. "Unless, of course, you start cooperating."
"Cooperating about what?" Mark snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden, exhausted anger. "I didn't know my dad was in the basement! I didn't know Elena was starving Lily! I didn't know my company accounts were being siphoned!"
"That's the million-dollar question, Mr. Evans," Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the metal table. "How does a man live in a house for five years, walk through that kitchen every single day, and remain completely oblivious to the rotting foundation beneath his feet?"
Mark lowered his head into his hands, the cold steel handcuffs clinking softly against the table. "I was working. Every time I looked up from my desk, there was another bill, another crisis, another expectation to meet. I thought providing meant paying the bills. I didn't realize... I didn't see that the price was my family."
"Your wife made a calculated decision to protect you from your father's debts," Vance continued, flipping open the manila folder to reveal bank statements signed in Mark's name. "She took the fall for the embezzlement. But your son, Leo... he didn't protect you. He protected himself."
Mark looked up quickly, his heart skipping a beat. "What are you talking about?"
"We ran a forensic analysis on the home router after the tactical team cleared the premises," Vance said quietly, sliding a printed screenshot across the metal table. "The remote server wipe didn't come from your laptop bag, Mr. Evans. It came from a secure mobile terminal registered to a ten-year-old boy in a green hoodie."
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Mark stared down at the paper, his breath catching in his throat as he read the device serial number linked directly to Leo's school tablet.
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