Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The federal building in downtown Seattle was an imposing monolith of gray stone and reinforced glass, far removed from the petty politics and backroom handshakes of our suburban town.
I sat in a secure, private conference room on the eighth floor overlooking the glittering expanse of Puget Sound. A steaming cup of chamomile tea sat untouched on the mahogany table in front of me, while a medical examiner’s report detailing the exact fracture pattern of my nasal cartilage rested neatly beside a file folder marked CASE #2026-8819.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Marcus walked in, carrying a fresh stack of transcribed financial summaries.
“We’ve been combing through the drive you gave us for the last four hours,” Marcus said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me. A faint, admiring smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Rachel, I’ve prosecuted white-collar criminals for fifteen years, but I’ve never seen a corporate paper trail so thoroughly documented by the suspect himself. Your husband was a complete narcissist—he actually backed up all his encrypted shell company ledgers to a shared family cloud folder thinking nobody would ever look past the root menu.”
“Narcissism is a fatal flaw when you think everyone around you is too stupid to read,” I replied, taking a slow sip of my tea.
“He’s currently in holding down on the lower level,” Marcus continued, leaning forward. “His defense attorneys from downtown have already tried three separate emergency motions for release, but the federal magistrate denied every single one based on flight risk and the sheer volume of the evidence. Furthermore, when our team executed a search warrant on his office downtown an hour ago, they found the physical hard copies of the forged trust documents hidden in his private wall safe.”
I nodded slowly, feeling a profound, unshakeable weight lift from my shoulders. “What about the video files?”
Marcus’s expression darkened slightly. “We found the baby monitor footage directory. Every single clip of domestic abuse recorded over the last three years has been isolated, cataloged, and attached to the formal indictment as evidence of a systemic pattern of violent intimidation and coercive control.”
He paused, looking directly into my eyes.
“Rachel... under federal guidelines, and considering the physical evidence of last night’s assault, we can fast-track a protective custody order and file immediate felony domestic violence charges alongside the federal fraud indictments. He’s looking at a minimum of fifteen to twenty years without parole.”
I looked out the high-rise window, watching a massive container ship glide silently across the blue waters of the bay toward the Pacific Ocean.
Fifteen years. Twenty years.
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While he sat in a federal penitentiary realizing that his name, his money, and his parents’ influence couldn't save him, I would be somewhere else—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe, somewhere where my name belonged to me alone.
“Do it, Marcus,” I said quietly. “Let’s close the book.”
