Chapter 4 - The Interrogation RoomThe interrogation room at the precinct smelled of old coffee, floor wax, and inescapable dread. The metal chair felt freezing beneath Julian as he shifted nervously, the expensive gold watch on his wrist catching the harsh fluorescent light overhead.
"I want to speak to a lawyer," Julian said for the third time, his voice cracking slightly as he stared across the steel table.
The door swung open, and the woman in the charcoal suit walked in, sliding a thick file folder onto the table before taking a seat opposite him. She didn't look like a public defender or a standard detective. Her badge, clipped to her lapel, read: Special Victims Unit – Senior Prosecutor Eleanor Vance—no relation, thankfully.
"You can call a lawyer as soon as we finish reviewing the facts, Mr. Vance," Eleanor said, her voice smooth, sharp, and entirely devoid of warmth. "Right now, let's talk about what you were doing at 4:15 PM on Tuesday."
"I was at my mother’s birthday dinner," Julian said defensively, sitting up straighter. "My wife knew about it weeks in advance. She tried to fake a medical emergency just to ruin the family gathering and guilt-trip me into staying home."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. "Faked a medical emergency? Is that what you call a severe placental abruption that nearly resulted in the death of both your wife and your premature daughter?"
Julian blinked, genuine confusion flickering across his face. "Premature... what? She had the baby? But she wasn't due for another two weeks!"
"Thanks to your deliberate actions, yes, she went into premature labor," Eleanor shot back, opening the file folder to reveal a series of high-resolution color photographs. She slid them across the table.
Julian glanced down, and the blood drained entirely from his face.
The photos showed the dark puddle of blood on his kitchen floor, the splintered frame of the front door, and medical equipment surrounding a tiny, fragile infant hooked up to monitors in a sterile NICU incubator. Written across the bottom of the medical report was a bold doctor's note: Patient arrived in critical hemorrhagic shock. Delayed intervention by an estimated 12 minutes would have resulted in maternal and fetal mortality.
"She... she was fine when I left," Julian stammered, his arrogance completely crumbling into desperate self-preservation. "She was just having normal contractions! Women exaggerate these things. My mother said—"
"Your mother’s birthday party was more important than your wife’s life," Eleanor interrupted, her tone freezing the air in the room. "Furthermore, Mr. Vance, we pulled the digital logs from your smart home system. At 4:18 PM, right after walking out your front door, you explicitly used the mobile application to engage the deadbolt override, locking Clara inside a house with no landline phone, no vehicle access, and a failing body."
Julian stared at her in horror. "I... I just didn't want her following me or making a scene outside the restaurant! I unlocked it later!"
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"You unlocked it forty-eight hours later when you finally decided to come home," Eleanor corrected flatly, standing up and buttoning her jacket. "You didn't check your home security cameras. You didn't check your messages. You were too busy eating red velvet cake. You are being charged with felony reckless endangerment, criminal confinement, and domestic abuse resulting in severe bodily injury. Bail has been denied."
As two officers stepped forward to snap cold steel cuffs around Julian’s wrists, the heavy reality of his destruction finally hit him. The life he thought he ruled was gone.
