Chapter 10 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room inside the federal field office smelled faintly of bleach and cheap coffee. The walls were painted a dull, depressing institutional gray, broken only by a large, two-way mirror mounted on the wall opposite the metal table. Maya sat rigidly in the bolted-down chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the light blue knit sweater she wore feeling suddenly too heavy, too hot against her skin.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Agent Miller—a tall, sharp-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair and a crisp gray suit—stepped inside, carrying a thick manila folder. She placed the folder gently on the metal table before sitting down opposite Maya.
"You've had a very long day, Maya," Agent Miller said, her tone professional yet surprisingly gentle. "I know this is terrifying. But you need to understand the gravity of what your father was involved in."
"I want to see my dad," Maya said, her voice small, devoid of the defiance she had felt earlier that morning on the porch. "Please. Just let me talk to him for two minutes."
Agent Miller opened the folder, revealing several printed bank statements, photocopies of the stolen scholarship checks, and a photograph of the microchip recovered from the wounded man at the lakehouse.
"Your father isn't available right now," Agent Miller replied softly. "He's currently answering questions in the room next door. And right now, Marcus is trying to figure out how to explain why three hundred thousand dollars of embezzled school funds passed through his personal offshore account."
Maya felt a fresh wave of nausea hit her stomach. Three hundred thousand dollars? It wasn't just a mistake or a poorly managed loan. It was a massive financial crime that spanned years.
"My mother didn't know," Maya whispered, her eyes fixed on the metal table. "She signed the loan papers, but she thought it was for a restaurant. She didn't know about Sarah. She didn't know about Leo."
Agent Miller paused, looking closely at Maya. "We've questioned your mother, Elena, as well. And while she may not have known about the other family, she certainly knew that the household finances didn't match their teacher's salary. People are rarely as blind to their partners' lives as they pretend to be, Maya."
The words hit Maya like a physical blow. Was Agent Miller suggesting that her mother knew about the corruption all along? That the argument on the porch this morning—the fight over the car keys—hadn't been a spontaneous disagreement about independence, but a rehearsed performance to keep Maya from discovering the truth before the federal raid went down?
"No," Maya shook her head, tears blurring her vision. "My mom was just trying to protect me. She didn't want me to take the car because... because she didn't want me to get into an accident."
"Or maybe," Agent Miller countered calmly, sliding a piece of paper across the table, "she didn't want you driving down to the industrial park where the delivery was scheduled to take place."
Maya looked down at the paper. It was a phone record showing a thirty-second outgoing call from her mother’s cell phone to Victor Vance’s burner number at 7:15 AM—twenty minutes before Maya walked out onto the porch.
The room seemed to tilt on its axis. Every memory of her mother’s strict rules, her cold demeanor, her crossed arms—it wasn't just maternal overprotection. It was complicity. Her mother had orchestrated the entire sequence of events to ensure Maya played her assigned role as the courier.
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Before Maya could process the devastating betrayal, the observation mirror on the wall suddenly shattered into a web of spider-web cracks from a heavy impact inside the next room, followed by the muffled sound of a violent struggle and a gunshot ringing out through the thin walls.
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