Chapter 8: The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the county precinct smelled of stale coffee, industrial carpet cleaner, and decades of accumulated despair. A single overhead lamp hung suspended over a scarred metal table, casting a harsh pool of light onto David’s hands as he sat handcuffed to an eyebolt bolted to the tabletop. His dark blazer was gone, leaving him in his sweat-stained grey t-shirt, his shoulders slumped forward in an attitude of total defeat. Across from him sat Detective Vance, a seasoned investigator with sharp eyes and a permanently furrowed brow, tossing a heavy brass key from hand to hand with a rhythmic, maddening click.
""Let's go over the timeline one more time, David,"" Detective Vance said, his voice low and devoid of anger, which made it all the more menacing. ""At 11:42 PM, the first 911 call was placed from a neighbor reporting heavy smoke coming from 442 Elm Street. At 11:46 PM, patrol units arrived. They found you and your wife standing thirty yards from the front porch, completely unharmed, watching the second story catch fire.""
David didn't look up. His eyes remained fixed on the scratches in the metal table. ""We tried to get her out,"" he mumbled, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth.
Detective Vance slammed his palm down on the table. The sharp crack made David flinch violently. ""Stop lying! Your own daughter was found wandering three blocks away by a delivery driver before the fire trucks even pulled up to the curb! She wasn't trapped in that bedroom when the fire started, David. You locked an empty room to make it look like an accident, and then you miscalculated.""
David squeezed his eyes shut, a solitary tear finally cutting a clean path through the gray soot and sweat on his cheek. ""We didn't mean to kill her,"" he choked out, the defensive wall finally crumbling away under the weight of the undeniable evidence. ""We wanted the house to burn down. We wanted the room to disappear. Everything inside that basement—the chains, the ledger, the medical supplies—we thought if the fire consumed it all, the nightmare would be over. We could start fresh. Move to another state. Pretend she never existed.""
Detective Vance leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the physical distance between them. ""And the child? Where did she go while you were setting the fire?""
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""She was in the kitchen,"" David whispered, his voice trembling so badly the words were barely intelligible. ""She was sitting at the island eating cereal, watching the flames crawl up the pantry wall. She didn't scream. She didn't run. She just looked at me with those dead, patient eyes and said, *'You forgot to lock the front door, Daddy.'* That's when I panicked. I grabbed the padlock, locked her inside her bedroom just to buy a few minutes, and ran out the back.""
The detective stared at the man for a long, silent beat, processing the grotesque inversion of family dynamics that had played out in that suburban kitchen. He stood up, smoothing down his jacket, and turned toward the observation mirror on the far wall.
