Chapter 12 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the state police barracks smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaning solution. Across the silver metal table, Detective Miller—a tired-looking veteran with tired eyes and a thick mustache—slapped a printed transcript down on the table.
"Your husband is claiming self-defense and extreme emotional distress," Detective Miller said, leaning forward. "He says you ambushed him in an isolated cabin with a firearm and that the boy attacked him from behind with a deadly weapon."
Sarah didn't flinch. She folded her hands neatly on the table, her expression as cold and sharp as the winter wind outside. "He broke my nine-year-old son's fingers by slamming a wooden drawer on his hand over a dropped cookie. My sister helped him track us down to violate an emergency protective order. We acted in self-defense against an armed intruder."
Detective Miller tapped the transcript. "And the knee?"
"He slipped on the ice coming through the door," Sarah said flatly.
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The detective stared at her for a long, heavy moment, a slow, grim smile touching the corner of his mouth. He slid a copy of a digital file across the table—the backup from Clara’s cloud storage, capturing Arthur’s exact words when he walked through that door.
"Case closed on the assault charge," Detective Miller muttered. "As for Arthur? Between the child abuse warrants, the domestic violence history we're now uncovering from his first marriage, and the financial fraud tied to your brother-in-law's accounts... he’s not seeing daylight for a very long time."
