Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
By midnight, the memorial dinner was a ghost memory. The guests had been ushered out through the gates under the cover of pouring rain, their luxury sedans escorted by armed black SUVs.
The estate had transformed into a fortress.
I sat at a metal folding table in the basement security office, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm water that someone had handed me twenty minutes ago. Lily was asleep on a cot in the corner, wrapped in my wool cardigan, her thumb tucked safely in her mouth despite the chaos outside.
The heavy iron door swung open.
Caleb Stone walked in, flanked by two armed guards whose suits couldn't hide the heavy iron frames beneath their arms. He tossed a thick manila folder onto the metal table, the sound echoing loudly in the sterile room.
“Name: Elena Vance. Employment: Assistant Housekeeper, eight months. Previous employer: A dry cleaner in Evanston that went bankrupt under suspicious tax audits,” Caleb recited, leaning against the edge of the table and staring down at me with pure contempt.
“That’s a matter of public record,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “My husband died. The business failed. I applied through an agency. Every document is in HR.”
“Every document was in HR,” Caleb corrected smoothly, tapping the folder. “Until an hour ago, when I pulled your employee file from the digital archives to verify your timeline.”
I frowned, a cold knot forming in my chest. “And?”
“And I found something fascinating, Elena. Or whatever your real name is.” Caleb opened the folder, sliding a single sheet of cream-colored cardstock across the metal table.
It was a memo.
Not just any memo—it was printed on official Moretti Estate Human Resources letterhead, dated three days ago.
“RE: Reassignment of Elena Vance to West Wing Nursery Support Staff. Effective immediately. Direct access to infant quarters approved by order of R. Moretti.”
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the paper as if it were venomous.
“I never received this,” I whispered. “I work in linens and general housekeeping. I have never set foot in the west wing nursery. You know that—my keycard doesn't even have clearance for the second floor!”
“That’s what makes it such a masterpiece,” Caleb smiled, a cold, humorless curve of his lips. “According to the electronic access logs updated five minutes ago, your keycard did swipe the west wing service door at 8:14 PM tonight. Right before the baby went missing.”
The room seemed to spin.
I stood up so fast my metal chair scraped backward against the concrete floor, screeching like metal on bone. “That’s a lie! Someone falsified those logs! I was in the laundry annex folding towels with Mrs. Gable when the alarm went off!”
“Mrs. Gable went home with a migraine at 7:30 PM, Elena,” Caleb said smoothly, crossing his arms. “She left through the front gates twenty minutes before you supposedly went upstairs.”
“She was there!” I shouted, my voice cracking. I glanced instinctively toward the corner where Lily was sleeping, terrified the noise would wake her. “She was helping me with the winter linens!”
“Nobody saw her. And more importantly,” Caleb leaned in close, his eyes narrowing into cold slits, “the security cameras in the service hallway just happened to suffer a three-minute power glitch right at the moment the nursery door was breached. The only person placed at the scene by physical eyewitness testimony is your daughter.”
He straightened up, his face hardening into absolute corporate executioner mode.
“You wanted a way out of your Evanston debts, Elena. Or maybe someone paid you a very large sum to steal an heir from a grieving house. Either way, Rocco Moretti does not take kindly to people who touch his blood.”
The door behind Caleb opened.
May you like
Rocco Moretti walked into the room.
He had changed out of his funeral suit into a dark charcoal collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His face was carved from gray stone, his eyes hollow and dark as an abyss. He didn't look at Caleb. He looked only at me.
