Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
The fluorescent lighting of the precinct interrogation room hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. Across the metal table sat Detective Miller—a weary-eyed veteran with a permanent scowl and a cheap ballpoint pen clicking rhythmically against a yellow legal pad.
"Let’s run through it one more time, Mr. Vance," Detective Miller said, not looking up from his notes. "Your brother, Julian Vance, who was legally declared dead after a boating accident five years ago, somehow survived, dug his way into a secret crawlspace behind your living room bookcase, and attacked you and your wife in the middle of the night?"
"That's what happened," I replied flatly, staring straight ahead at the scuffed metal wall.
My hands were still shaking slightly, caked in dried mud and a faint smear of Julian’s blood. Vanessa was in the adjacent room, giving her synchronized statement to a female officer. We had rehearsed our story down to the microscopic details during the agonizing twenty minutes before the squad cars sirens wailed up our driveway.
Detective Miller stopped clicking his pen. He leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table, narrowing his eyes at me. "You expect me to buy that a man lived inside your walls for five years without you noticing a single utility spike, a single sound, or a single shred of suspicion? In a standard three-bedroom suburban build?"
"He had access to the old ventilation maintenance shaft," I recited mechanically, sticking to the script Vanessa had drilled into my head while the ambulance hauled Julian away to the ICU. "He was unhinged, Detective. He must have modified the space before he faked his disappearance to hide embezzled funds from our company. We were terrified. We didn't know he was there until he broke through the drywall tonight."
Miller studied my face for a long, uncomfortable minute, searching for a crack in my composure. "Your wife’s story matches yours almost word for word, Mr. Vance. Almost too perfectly."
My heart skipped a beat, but I forced my expression to remain neutral. "When you've just survived a home invasion by a maniac you thought was dead, your memory tends to be pretty sharp."
Miller grunted, leaning back in his chair and scribbling something down on his pad. "Your brother is currently in a medically induced coma at St. Jude’s Hospital. Severe cranial trauma. The doctors say if and when he wakes up, his cognitive function is going to be severely compromised. He might not even remember his own name."
A cold wave of relief washed over me, instantly followed by a sickening wave of guilt. Julian had been a monster, but he was my flesh and blood. And now, his mind had been permanently erased by a brass fireplace poker swung by my own wife.
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"Can I go home now?" I asked quietly.
Detective Miller stood up, gathering his papers. "You and your wife are free to leave for now, Mr. Vance. But don't leave town. Something about this house of yours stinks to high heaven, and until your brother wakes up to tell his side of the story, this case remains wide open."
