Chapter 3
The interview room at the suburban precinct smelled of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. A single overhead light cast a harsh yellow glow over the scarred wooden table where Jacob sat, staring down at a paper cup of water he hadn't touched. Detective Marcus Vance, a tired-looking man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair and a rumpled beige trench coat, flipped open a leather-bound notebook.
"Let’s start from the top, Mr. Reynolds," Vance said, his voice flat, drained of any theatrical interrogation anger. "Your wife claims your mother assaulted her when she tried to intervene in the punishment of your seven-year-old son. Your mother admits to the physical correction, calling it discipline. And your son is currently in protective custody at the hospital awaiting a pediatric forensic exam."
Jacob swallowed hard, the knot in his throat refusing to dissolve. "My mother... she has always lived by a strict code. Growing up, discipline was absolute. But I never thought... I didn't know she would turn that on Megan, or on Toby."
"Your mother owns this house, doesn't she?" Vance asked, tapping his pen against the table. "The deed is in Eleanor Reynolds’s name. You and your wife live there courtesy of her estate."
"Yes," Jacob admitted, the admission tasting like ash. "The firm I work for is a partnership, but my share is tied up. We live in her guest wing. It was supposed to be temporary, a way to save for our own place, but years slipped by."
"Comfortable cages usually do that, Mr. Reynolds," Vance murmured without malice. "Your mother isn't talking without her legal counsel present, but she made one thing very clear before her lawyer arrived. She claims she was protecting the family name from Megan’s supposed negligence."
"Megan is a devoted mother," Jacob defended instantly, though the words felt weak against the mountain of institutional evidence piling up.
"We’ll let the courts decide who is devoted and who is dangerous," Vance said, closing his notebook with a sharp snap. "Your wife gave a detailed statement about the escalation over the past six months. Apparently, your mother’s methods didn't start yesterday. They started small—with cold rooms, locked doors, and ruler-strips across palms—before escalating to what we saw this morning."
May you like
Jacob felt the room tilt. "Ruler-strips? In my house?"
"In her house," Vance corrected quietly. "You’ve been commuting to an office fifty miles away every day, Jacob, wearing a nice grey suit and a blue tie, pretending the foundation beneath your feet was solid. But you built a life on quicksand, and now the ground has given way."
