Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room smelled of stale coffee, bleach, and old paper. The metal table between them reflected the harsh fluorescent glare of a single overhead fixture that hummed with a low, irritating frequency.
Julian sat with his hands cuffed to a metal loop in the center of the table, his eyes bloodshot, staring blankly at the gray concrete wall. The interrogation had been going on for four hours, but the questions hadn't come from federal agents. They had come from Arthur Vance.
The heavy steel door swung open with a sharp squeak, and Arthur walked in, carrying a thick manila folder and a steaming paper cup of black coffee. He sat down opposite Julian, setting the cup down without offering any.
"You look tired, nephew," Arthur said, opening the folder and flipping through a series of photographs showing the safety deposit boxes recovered from the basement vault.
"Where is my mother?" Julian asked, his voice raw and cracked from hours of silence.
"Elena is on her way back to the estate in Maine," Arthur replied calmly. "She had a lot of packing to do. After all, Maple Street is no longer legally habitable."
"You framed us," Julian said, leaning forward despite the restraints, his eyes burning with fury. "You and my mother engineered this entire thing. You knew about that vault for years, and you let us live there just so you could drop the hammer when it suited your vendetta."
Arthur chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Framed you? Julian, my boy, nobody planted those safety deposit boxes. Your father spent his final months tracking down the exact ledger entries that proved Thomas Miller stole three million dollars from the engineering trust. When your father confronted Miller, Miller didn't run to Ohio—he bought this house under a shell corporation, sealed the vault, and died of a massive stroke right here in this living room."
Julian blinked, the pieces of a horrifying puzzle slowly clicking into place. "Dad... Dad didn't die of natural causes?"
"His heart gave out the night he found out," Arthur said softly, his demeanor shifting from cold corporate prosecutor to grieving brother. "And your mother spent ten years trying to protect you from the truth because she couldn't bear the thought of her only son realizing he had married the daughter of a thief."
Julian leaned back, the wind completely knocked out of him. He looked down at his hands, the metal cuffs suddenly feeling heavier than lead. "And Clara?"
"Clara knew more than she’s admitting," Arthur said, closing the folder with a sharp snap. "Federal marshals just intercepted a wire transfer originating from a secondary account linked to Clara’s maiden name—transferring two hundred thousand dollars to an offshore bank in Zurich, scheduled to clear at midnight."
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Julian’s head snapped up, his breath catching in his throat. "What did you just say?"
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