Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
At 8:30 on Sunday morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky over the county seat a sharp, wintry gray.
The county courthouse annex smelled of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and stale urn coffee. I sat beside Nolan on a wooden bench in the hallway outside Interrogation Room 3, a manila folder resting across my knees.
Through the double-paned observation window, we could see Sabrina.
She looked entirely different from the poised corporate executive who had stood in my kitchen eighteen hours ago.
Her ivory jumpsuit was gone, replaced by a stiff, oversized orange canvas jumpsuit with *COUNTY CORRECTIONAL* stenciled across the back in black block letters. Her manicured hands were shackled to a welded steel loop in the center of the heavy metal table. Her hair was unwashed, tangled around her shoulders, and without her makeup, her face looked gaunt, sharp, and exhausted.
Across from her sat Detective Sarah Miller and Assistant District Attorney Marcus Vance—no relation to us, a notoriously aggressive prosecutor who specialized in corporate malfeasance and crimes against children.
Marcus Vance slid a thick stack of printed documents across the metal table, the paper scratching loudly against the steel.
"Let’s review where we are, Sabrina," Marcus said, his voice flat and conversational. "Because your situation has deteriorated significantly since midnight."
Sabrina didn't touch the papers. She leaned back in her chair, her shackles clinking. "I have told you four times. I am not speaking to anyone until my attorney, Richard Sterling, arrives. And when he does, you will be answering to the state bar for civil rights violations."
Detective Miller leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. A small, cold smile touched the corner of her mouth.
"Mr. Sterling won't be joining us today, Ms. Vance," Miller said.
Sabrina blinked, her haughty demeanor faltering for a microsecond. "What are you talking about?"
"Mr. Sterling was arrested at four-thirty-six this morning," Miller continued, tapping the top page of the stack. "He was caught breaking into your sister’s basement with a pry bar, a drill, and a gallon of muriatic acid, attempting to destroy the digital video server containing the master recording of you spiking Harper’s drink."
Sabrina’s mouth fell open. The blood drained from her face, leaving her lips a dull, ashen gray.
"That’s... that’s impossible," she stammered.
"Oh, it’s very possible," Marcus Vance chimed in. "He’s currently two doors down in Interrogation Room 1. And unlike you, Richard Sterling is seventy-one years old with a heart condition. He knows he won't survive five years in a maximum-security penitentiary, let alone twenty. He started singing fifty minutes ago."
Marcus leaned in, pointing to the second document in the pile.
"Sterling gave us the encryption keys to your four Delaware shell corporations," Marcus said, watching Sabrina’s eyes track his finger. "He gave us the fraudulent equipment lease agreements. He gave us the bank routing numbers for the eight point four million dollars you diverted from the Vance Logistics employee pension fund to cover your illegal short positions on tech futures."
Sabrina began to tremble. Her hands, locked to the center of the table, jerked against the steel chain.
"That has nothing to do with Harper," she whispered, her voice cracking. "That’s corporate business. That’s separate."
"It has everything to do with Harper," Marcus snapped, dropping his fist onto the table with an explosive bang that made Sabrina flinch. "You needed the Apex Holdings buyout to conceal the missing eight million dollars before the annual audit. Harper’s seventh birthday triggered the trust proxy transfer to Camille. You knew Camille’s professional background—you knew she would spot the embezzlement within twenty minutes of examining the balance sheet."
Detective Miller pulled a glossy eight-by-ten photograph from her folder and laid it face-up directly in front of Sabrina.
It was an enlarged still frame from the pantry camera: Sabrina’s face, captured in sharp, four-K resolution, looking directly toward the glass cabinet with that cold, predatory smile while the amber dropper bottle rested in her left hand.
"You didn't make a mistake," Miller said softly. "You planned the dosage. You requisitioned the veterinary solvent forty-eight hours in advance from your own warehouse. You carried the contaminated swizzle stick out of the house in your purse. You intended to incapacitate a seven-year-old child to stage a parental negligence charge against your sister."
Sabrina stared down at the photograph. Her breathing became rapid, shallow, and ragged.
"The grand jury is being convened tomorrow morning," Marcus Vance said, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, relentless cadence. "Here are the charges we are filing: Count One: Attempted aggravated murder of a minor with premeditation. Count Two: Aggravated assault with a deadly toxic substance causing serious bodily injury. Count Three: Felony child endangerment. Count Four: First-degree burglary and conspiracy to destroy physical evidence. Counts Five through Twelve: Grand larceny, wire fraud, and falsification of corporate records."
Marcus leaned back, crossing his arms.
"In this state, attempted murder of a child under the age of twelve carries a mandatory minimum sentence of thirty-five years without the possibility of parole. The corporate counts add an additional fifteen to twenty. You are looking at fifty-five years, Sabrina. You will leave prison in a pine box."
Sabrina let out a strange, choking sound—half sob, half screech.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this!" she screamed, thrashing against her shackles, the steel chain rattling violently against the table. "Camille was supposed to be the weak one! She walked away! She chose to be a pathetic, stay-at-home suburban mother instead of running an empire! I did the work! I kept the company alive! That money was mine!"
"That money belonged to four hundred truck drivers and their families," I said, pushing the heavy wooden door open and stepping into the interrogation room.
Detective Miller and Marcus Vance didn't stop me. They stood aside, allowing me to take the chair directly across from my sister.
Sabrina stopped thrashing. She looked at me, her chest heaving, tears finally cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks.
"Camille..." she gasped, her voice suddenly shifting back into that pathetic, pleading tone she used whenever grandfather used to corner her. "Camille, please. You have to tell them. Tell them it was a family dispute. Tell them you won't testify. If you don't testify, the attempted murder charge won't stick. Please, Cami... we’re sisters. We share the same blood."
I looked at the woman sitting across from me.
For twenty years, she had cast a shadow over my life. She had made me doubt my sanity, my intelligence, and my worth. She had weaponized my love for my family against me, turning my parents into her accomplices and using corporate power like a cudgel to keep me silent.
And yesterday, she had looked into my daughter’s eyes, handed her a lethal poison, and smiled while her heart stopped beating.
I reached across the table, took the glossy photograph of her smiling face, and slid it back into my manila folder.
"We don't share anything anymore, Sabrina," I said, my voice dead, calm, and final. "You aren't my sister. You're just a defendant in a criminal proceeding."
I stood up, turned my back on her, and walked out the door.
May you like
Behind me, Sabrina’s high-pitched, desperate screaming echoed down the concrete hallway until the heavy steel security doors slammed shut, cutting her off from the world forever.
***
