Chapter 5 - The Snake Eats Its Tail
What Daniel didn't know—and what Frank Geller hadn't bothered to tell him—was that thirty feet down the same corridor, Vivian Sterling was sitting in an identical interrogation room with her own court-appointed attorney.
Vivian had never been in an institutional facility in her life. She was a woman who returned soup at Michelin-star restaurants if the broth wasn't precisely sixty-five degrees. Now, she was wrapped in a coarse, scratchy gray blanket, her dyed blonde roots showing distinct silver against her scalp, her manicured acrylic nails chipped and filthy.
Across the stainless-steel table sat Arthur Vance, looking immaculate in a charcoal bespoke suit, holding an open laptop facing her.
On the screen was a live video feed from Room 4.
Vivian watched in horrified silence as her precious, golden son—the boy she had coddled, the man for whom she had spent years terrorizing Clara—grinned at his lawyer, took a black Montblanc pen, and signed his name across a four-page affidavit that placed the entirety of the blame on his mother's shoulders.
The audio through the laptop's speakers was devastatingly clear.
*"My mother is unstable,"* Daniel’s voice came through, dripping with smooth theatrical sorrow. *"She hated Clara from day one because Clara wouldn't let her control the estate. Vivian told me repeatedly she was going to 'fix the problem.' I thought she meant moving back to Florida. I had no idea she had boiled the oil until I walked into the kitchen and saw Clara screaming. I only lied to protect her because she’s my mother… but I cannot protect a monster any longer."*
Vivian's mouth fell open. A terrible, strangled sound tore from her throat—half sob, half screech.
"He signed it," Arthur said softly, his voice cutting through her agony like a surgical scalpel. "He just traded you for a recommendation of eight years in a minimum-security facility with parole eligibility in three. Meanwhile, Mrs. Sterling, with his testimony corroborating the video evidence, you will be looking at twenty-five years to life at Logan Correctional Center."
"He lied!" Vivian shrieked, clawing at the table until her knuckles turned bone-white. "He bought the oil! He told me that morning that Clara was changing the will! He said, *'We have to make her an invalid, Mother. If she’s crippled and dependent, I can exercise the medical power of attorney!'* It was Daniel’s idea! He orchestrated everything!"
"An interesting claim," Arthur said smoothly, pulling a crisp, blank document from his leather folder. "Unfortunately, Daniel has credibility with the state right now. You are an unemployed dependent with a history of civil judgments for passing bad checks."
"I have proof!" Vivian wailed, tears carving black trenches through her mascara. "I have his text messages! I saved his voicemails on my old iPad! The one in my dressing room vanity!"
Arthur leaned forward, his eyes narrowing to slits. "The iPad Daniel told the police you used to harass Clara’s friends?"
"Yes! Yes! He told me to delete the chat, but I saved the audio memos! He told me step-by-step how to heat the oil so it wouldn't create a grease fire on the range! He told me to aim for her neck!"
Arthur pushed the paper toward her along with a standard blue ballpoint pen.
"Write it down, Vivian. Every date. Every conversation. Every dollar amount he promised you from Clara’s trust once Clara was incapacitated. Sign it, initial every page, and tell me the passcode to that iPad."
Vivian grabbed the pen with trembling, manic energy. She didn't pause to think. She didn't ask for her lawyer's counsel. Driven by pure, vindictive maternal hatred for the son who had just tossed her into the fire, she wrote for two solid hours.
When she finished, her hand was cramping, covered in blue ink smudges. She slid the confession back across the table.
"There," she wept, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Now let me go home. Please, Arthur. Let me go back to the penthouse."
Arthur stood up, carefully sliding the signed documents into his briefcase. He closed the brass clasps with a sharp, definitive snap.
"I’m afraid that's impossible, Vivian," Arthur said, looking down at her with cold indifference. "The sheriff took possession of the penthouse forty minutes ago. All of your designer gowns and jewelry have been impounded as proceeds of fraud. And as for your confession… the state attorney will be adding it to Daniel’s file. But your own video footage remains unassailable. You’re both going away for a very long time."
Vivian’s eyes bulged in horror as the heavy steel door clicked open behind Arthur. "You lied to me! You said you’d help me!"
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"No, Vivian," Arthur said, turning back at the threshold. "I said I wanted the truth. Clara wanted justice. And you two just handed it to us on a silver platter."
***
