Chapter 7 - The Interrogation RoomThe fluorescent lights of the precinct interrogation room buzzed with a low, agonizing hum. Jason sat at the metal table, his hands cuffed to a bolted-down loop in the center. His designer shirt was stained with coffee, his hair matted, and his eyes hollowed out by twenty-four hours of sheer, unfiltered terror.
The heavy metal door swung open, and Detective Vance walked in, tossing a thick manila folder onto the table with a sharp slap.
“Let’s go over this one more time, Jason,” the detective said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “You took eighty thousand dollars of corporate funds without board approval, funneled it through three shell accounts, and used it to lease a luxury high-rise apartment for an individual named Mia Martinez.”
“It was a loan!” Jason shouted, his voice cracking desperately. “I was going to pay it back! The venture capital deal was supposed to close this week! My partners knew about it—sort of!”
“Your partner Arthur signed an affidavit thirty minutes ago stating he knew nothing of the sort,” the detective replied coldly, sliding a printed bank statement across the table. “And let’s talk about your personal liabilities. Your mother and sister are currently sleeping in a Ford Explorer parked outside a 24-hour diner because every credit card in your family name has been maxed out or frozen by fraud protection.”
Jason buried his face in his cuffed hands, a ragged sob tearing through his throat. “She ruined me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and utter defeat. “My wife... she planned all of this. She knew about Mia for months. She let me walk right into the trap.”
“Your wife didn't force you to cheat, Jason,” the detective said flatly, gathering the paperwork. “Your wife didn't force you to steal corporate funds or lie to your mother about owning a penthouse. You built this prison all by yourself. She just locked the door.”
The door clicked open again, and a uniform officer stepped in. “Visitor for the detainee. Though I use the term loosely.”
Jason looked up, hope momentarily flaring in his bloodshot eyes. “Is it... is it my lawyer? Or my mother?”
The officer smirked. “Neither.”
A moment later, Barbara shuffled into the interrogation room, her hair disheveled, her designer handbag replaced by a plastic grocery sack containing her remaining toiletries. She didn't look at Jason with pity or maternal warmth. She looked at him with the cold, murderous fury of a woman who had lost everything because of her golden boy’s monumental stupidity.
“Mom...” Jason breathed out, shrinking back into his chair.
Barbara didn't say a word. She marched right up to the table, reared back her palm, and struck him across the face a second time—harder than before.
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“You worthless piece of trash,” Barbara hissed, her voice shaking with rage. “I sold my house for you. I gave you every dime of my savings to invest in your future. And you traded it all for a bleached blonde in a silk nightgown.”
She turned on her heel, spat on the linoleum floor, and stormed out of the room, leaving Jason alone in the buzzing silence with his handcuffs and his ruin.
