Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the county precinct smelled faintly of old floor wax, cheap coffee, and stale cigarette smoke. A single metal table sat bolted to the center of the linoleum floor, illuminated by a harsh fluorescent overhead light that buzzed with a low, irritating frequency. David sat on one side of the table, still wearing his dark blue shirt, though it was now rumpled and stained with dirt from the backyard struggle. Across from him sat Detective Harrison, a sharp-eyed investigator with graying hair and an unyielding stare.
"Let’s go over it one more time, David," Detective Harrison said, tossing a thick manila folder onto the metal table with a dull thud. "Because your story about an aggressive transient doesn't quite match the dental impressions, the handwriting samples on the original property deeds, or the testimony of your brother’s former business partners."
"It’s a hoax," David muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the metal grain of the table. His voice lacked any conviction, sounding hollow and tired. "Marcus died in that car crash. I identified the body. Clara identified the body. The insurance company paid out. Everything was legal."
"Nothing about your life has been legal since the night of November 14th, 2004," Detective Harrison countered, sliding a glossy photograph across the table. It showed the interior of the storm cellar, specifically the heavy wooden house door with the deadbolt sheared cleanly from the inside. "We found a secondary set of keys hidden in the wall behind the basement shelves. Keys that only the property owner—the original property owner—would know how to access. Marcus survived the crash, you pulled him out before the car went over the cliff, and instead of taking him to a hospital, you locked him away to steal his inheritance and his wife."
David’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, knowing that every word the detective spoke was absolute truth. The house, the money, the life he had built with Clara—it had all been built on a foundation of ash and betrayal.
"Where is Clara?" David finally asked, his voice cracking slightly.
"She’s in the next room," Detective Harrison replied smoothly, watching David’s micro-expressions with clinical detachment. "And unlike you, she’s talking. She’s telling us about the forged signatures at the bank, the cash transfers, and how you threatened her into silence if she ever tried to free him."
David’s head snapped up, betrayal flashing across his face. "She was just as guilty! She helped plan the cover-up!"
"Maybe so," Detective Harrison said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "But cooperation gets results. Right now, you’re looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping, identity theft, and attempted murder. Unless, of course, you want to tell us what else you buried down on that property."
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David froze, his breath catching in his throat. The detective’s words hung heavily in the air, hinting at a darker secret even Marcus didn't know about yet.
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