Chapter 5 - The Interrogation Room
The precinct interrogation room was a brutalist rectangle of painted cinderblocks, illuminated by a single overhead fluorescent fixture that hummed with a low, maddening frequency.
Clara sat at the center of the metal table, her wrists cuffed to an anchor plate welded into the steel. Her dark navy dress was wrinkled, her long black hair disheveled, but her posture remained defiantly upright. Across from her sat Detective Miller, a veteran investigator whose weathered face bore the fatigue of thirty years on the homicide squad.
"The digital forensics team verified the authenticity of the micro SD card," Miller said, dropping a thick Manila folder onto the table with a dull thud. "The digital signature matches the hardware specs of Elena Vance’s personal computer. Furthermore, our financial division traced the offshore accounts in the Caymans. They belong to you."
Clara stared at Miller, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. "A dead woman's panicked video proves nothing, Detective. Any competent lawyer will have that file thrown out as unauthenticated hearsay."
Miller leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table. "We don't just have the video, Clara. We have the mechanic."
Clara's dark eyes twitched.
"We picked up Marcus Vance—no relation to Julian, just a crooked mechanic working out of a shop near the highway," Miller continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "He broke after twenty minutes in this exact room. He gave us the phone logs, the wire transfer receipts, and the exact date you paid him forty thousand dollars to weaken the brake fluid lines on Elena’s SUV."
Clara remained silent, her jaw locked tight.
"And then, of course, there's tonight," Miller added, pulling a small electronic tablet from his jacket. "Julian Vance installed high-definition 4K security cameras around the pool deck three weeks ago. Infrared night vision. High-fidelity audio."
Miller pressed play and laid the tablet flat on the table.
The crisp screen showed Clara snatching the locket from the four-year-old child. It showed her throwing the metal into the pool. It showed Sophy falling in, thrashing frantically for forty-five seconds, while Clara stood on the stone edge with her arms crossed, watching impassively.
The audio output from the tablet played Clara’s soft, chilling voice back into the room: 'You fell because you were playing.'
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Clara stared at the screen. The absolute, undeniable proof of her cold-blooded nature echoed off the bare cinderblock walls.
"That's attempted first-degree murder of a minor, on top of capital murder and grand larceny," Miller said quietly. "You're never seeing the sun again, Clara."
