Chapter 6 - The Confrontation at the Station
At five o'clock that evening, Detective Miller returned to the hospital with an official case folder tucked under his arm. His face was gray with fatigue, but his eyes carried the quiet satisfaction of an investigator who held all the cards.
"Evan Mercer just flipped," Miller announced, pulling up a chair.
I turned my head slightly, wincing at the pull of the stitches on my jawline. "He confessed?"
"Not just confessed. He handed over every encrypted chat, email, and voice note from the last four months in exchange for a plea deal on second-degree criminal facilitation," Miller explained. "Evan’s production company was two hundred thousand dollars in debt. They were facing eviction from their production studio. Fallon convinced him that this reality pilot was their only ticket out."
Miller opened the folder and slid a printed document onto my tray table.
"Three weeks ago," Miller continued, "Fallon had a sit-down meeting with a senior programming scout from a major digital streaming network. The scout told her that luxury lifestyle content was dead. What sells right now is raw, toxic family drama—specifically 'narcissistic sibling wars.' Fallon literally promised them an unscripted incident that would guarantee ten million impressions on premiere day."
"And the chemical?" Greer asked, leaning in.
"That was entirely Fallon," Miller said. "Evan thought she was going to throw regular sparkling wine mixed with red food coloring. But two days before the wedding, Fallon texted him: *'Wine washes off. If she washes it off before the cameras catch her crying, the scene is dead. I got something that will make her stay in the frame.'*"
A cold disgust settled in my gut. "She wanted me pinned there by the pain."
"Exactly," Miller confirmed. "She didn't anticipate that the chemical reaction would be instantaneous and catastrophic. She thought it would cause severe skin irritation, redness, and swelling over a few hours—enough to make you scream and cause a scene, but subtle enough that she could claim it was an innocent accident or an allergic reaction."
"What are the charges?" I asked.
"For Fallon? Aggravated assault with a deadly chemical agent, first-degree reckless endangerment, tampering with evidence, and felony conspiracy," Miller stated without hesitation. "The District Attorney’s office isn't offering a plea. The grand jury is being convened on Monday morning."
"What about my mother?"
Miller paused, looking at me with genuine sympathy. "Your mother isn't being charged with the assault. We don't have evidence showing she knew about the chemical beforehand. But the DA has opened an investigation into her for attempt to tamper with evidence. When she tried to wipe your face with that linen napkin at the wedding? She wasn't trying to comfort you, Sloan."
My throat tightened. "What was she doing?"
"She was trying to soak up the fluid before the venue manager could preserve the chemical sample," Miller said softly. "The production footage caught her whispering to Evan right after you went down: *'Get the glass. Rinse it in the bathroom sink.'*"
I looked away toward the window. The Manhattan skyline was glowing in the dusk, indifferent and vast. All those years, I had believed my mother’s favoritism was just shallow affection—that she simply loved the bright, shiny child more than the quiet one.
Now I understood the darker truth. Sybil didn't just love Fallon; she was Fallon's manager, her promoter, and her co-conspirator. They fed on the same vanity, fueled by the same hollow currency of attention.
"Press every single charge, Detective," I said, my voice cold and calm. "Don't hold back a single word."
May you like
Miller nodded, closed his folder, and stood up. "Consider it done, Ms. Ward."
***
