My phone started ringing at 2:27 a.m.

The interrogation room at the Greenville County Sheriff’s Department was stark, windowless, and smelled faintly of floor cleaner and industrial disinfectant.

Arthur sat at the steel table, a paper cup of lukewarm water sitting untouched before him. His hands were still trembling, his bloodshot eyes darting toward the two-way mirror every few seconds.

I sat across from him. Marcus stood near the door, arms crossed over his chest, his large frame blocking the only exit.

"You have two choices today, Arthur," I began, opening a thick leather portfolio on the metal table. "Choice number one: you continue protecting Brooke and Captain Landry, in which case you will be indicted as a co-conspirator in aggravated first-degree elder abuse, extortion, and felony tampering with evidence. That carries a mandatory minimum sentence of twelve to fifteen years in state prison."

Arthur flinched as if struck. "Clara... please. I didn't touch Mom. You know I would never lay a hand on her."

"You stood there while Brooke shattered her arm and broke three of her ribs!" I slammed my open palm against the table, the sharp crack echoing off the cinderblock walls. "You watched your wife beat our mother with a wooden bat, and then you lied to the police to have Mom locked in a mental ward! In my book, you are worse than Brooke. At least Brooke is a stranger. You are Helena Carter's son."

Arthur broke down, tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks, his chest heaving with heavy, shuddering breaths. "I didn't have a choice, Clara... you don't understand the kind of people I'm dealing with."

"Try me," I said, leaning back. "Let's talk about the offshore sports betting accounts. Let's talk about the four hundred and eighty thousand dollars you owe to the syndicates operating out of Atlantic City."

Arthur’s head snapped up. "How... how do you know about that?"

"I am Special Counsel to the Attorney General, Arthur. I had your financial profile pulled three hours ago." I pulled a printed spreadsheet from my folder and spun it across the table. "You've been embezzling from your commercial freight firm for eighteen months. Your audit was scheduled for next Friday. You needed half a million dollars liquid, immediately, or the firm’s board was going to refer you to the FBI for wire fraud."

Arthur buried his face in his hands again. "Brooke found out about the audit two weeks ago. She went insane. She said we were going to lose our house, our cars, everything. Then she went to Uncle Tom."

Marcus leaned forward from the doorway. "What was Landry’s cut?"

Arthur sniffled, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Landry has his own problems. He took out an unauthorized bridge loan against the Westbridge Police Benevolent Association fund last year for a bad commercial real estate investment. He was seventy thousand dollars short before the state audit next week. Brooke told him if he helped us push Mom into an involuntary conservatorship, we could liquidate the Maple Street property, clear my audit, and give him an eighty-thousand-dollar *consulting fee* through Brooke’s shell LLC."

"So the entire plan was Landry's idea?" Marcus asked, his pen already scribbling across his notepad.

"The conservatorship idea was Landry's," Arthur confessed, his voice barely a rasp. "He said Westbridge judges always sign off on emergency psychiatric petitions if the family and the responding police officers both swear the elder is violent and delusional. He said Mom would be placed in a state-run facility upstate within forty-eight hours, and as her legal guardians, Brooke and I could sell the house to a private developer before anyone even noticed."

"And when Mom refused to sign the voluntary deed transfer last night?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

"Brooke lost her mind," Arthur whispered. "She started screaming that Mom was selfish, that Mom was letting her own son go to federal prison. Mom tried to walk away to call you, Clara. She said, *I’m calling Clara, she’ll know what to do.* That’s when Brooke grabbed the bat. She told Mom, *Your precious city daughter can't save you now.*"

Arthur looked up at me, his eyes pleading for mercy that did not exist. "I tried to grab Brooke’s arm, Clara, I swear I did! But she shoved me back into the counters. She told me if I said a single word, she would tell the police I was the one who swung the bat. She had the knife in her hand. She cut her own cheek right in front of me and said, *Either your mother goes away, or you go away for attempted murder. Pick one.*"

"And you picked yourself," I said, disgust dripping from every syllable.

"I was terrified!" Arthur cried.

"Mom was terrified too, Arthur. While she was hiding in a filthy bathroom at the precinct, bleeding from her head, wondering why her only son had traded her life for his gambling debts."

I closed my portfolio with a sharp click.

"Clara... please," Arthur begged, reaching across the table. "What's going to happen to me?"

"You are going to sign a full, sworn confession detailing every conversation, every transaction, and every instruction given by Brooke Vance and Captain Thomas Landry," I told him coldly. "And then you are going to sit in a county cell while the grand jury reviews the charges. If you cooperate fully, the state prosecutor might recommend concurrent sentencing. If you lie by one syllable, I will personally ensure you serve every single consecutive day of the maximum penalty."

I stood and walked toward the heavy metal door. Marcus buzzed the latch.

"Clara!" Arthur cried out as the door swung open. "Is Mom going to be okay? Please... just tell me if she’s okay!"