Chapter 2 - The Interrogation Trap
The interrogation room at the county precinct smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and damp paper. The single metal table was bolted into the concrete floor, surrounded by three mismatched steel chairs. They left me sitting there in complete isolation for nearly three hours. Every ticking second on the wall clock felt like an eternity carved into my skull. My mind kept flashing back to Paige’s sweaty forehead, her tiny balled fists, and the sickening purple swelling beneath that cosmetic mask.
When the door finally squeaked open, Detective Miller walked in alongside a taller man dressed in a sharp gray suit. He set a manila folder down on the table with a deliberate, heavy thud.
""I’m Detective Harris,"" the man said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me without offering a greeting. ""Let’s skip the theatrics, Allyson. We have Katherine’s sworn declaration. We also have Gregory’s statement. They both paint a very consistent, tragic picture. According to both parents, Paige woke up smiling at six-thirty this morning, drank four ounces of formula, and was playfully kicking both legs in her bassinet before being placed into her car seat. They have time-stamped video from seven-fifteen showing Paige happily gurgling in a yellow romper.""
""Show me the video,"" I demanded, leaning across the table, my voice rough from exhaustion. ""What time was that video taken? Seven in the morning? Kate arrived at my house at nine sharp! What happened between seven-thirty and nine? Did Greg come with her? No, he wasn't in the car! Where was Greg?""
Detective Harris opened the manila folder, sliding a printed photograph across the cold metal surface. It was a picture of a designer cosmetics compact—a well-known luxury brand of heavy-coverage foundation. ""This was recovered from the bottom of your bathroom trash can during a preliminary consent search of your premises, authorized by Katherine as the emergency custodian of the property.""
My jaw dropped in disbelief. ""What? Katherine doesn't own my house! She can't authorize a search of my home!""
""She provided an affidavit claiming co-ownership of the family estate,"" Detective Miller cut in smoothly. ""The responding officers found your front door unlocked, entered under exigent verification, and discovered this compact lying in the bathroom bin right beside the changing area. It matches the exact chemical composition of the pigment Dr. Evans scraped from Paige’s thigh. The shade is 'Golden Honey'. Katherine is fair-skinned with cool undertones. You, Allyson, have warm olive undertones. Golden Honey is your exact shade.""
A chill ran down my spine so intense that my teeth began to chatter. It was a setup down to the cosmetic undertone. Three weeks ago, Kate had visited my house complaining that she had forgotten her makeup bag before a dinner party. She had borrowed my expensive concealer stick, playfully teasing me about how well it blended into her summer tan. She had never returned it to my purse. She had kept it, waited for the right moment, used it to disguise her baby’s fractured limb, and then tossed the spent casing into my bathroom trash when she dropped Paige off under the pretext of using my restroom to wash her hands.
""She planted it,"" I whispered, the sheer horror of the calculation hitting me like a freight train. ""When she arrived this morning, she asked to run to my bathroom to wash her hands while I took Paige into the living room. She was in my bathroom for almost two minutes. She dumped the compact in my trash right then and there! Please, check the fingerprints on that casing! Her prints will be all over it!""
""Both of your prints will be on it because you admit to owning the product,"" Detective Harris countered coolly. ""Here is the reality of your situation, Allyson. A six-month-old baby has a devastating fracture that required emergency orthopedic manipulation under anesthesia. We have the physical cosmetic evidence in your trash. We have the parents testifying that the child was completely unharmed when handed to you. And we have your sister weeping in the lobby, begging us to understand that you've been mentally unstable ever since your mother passed away.""
""I am an elementary school teacher!"" I shouted, slamming both palms down on the metal table. ""I have dedicated ten years of my life to caring for children! I have never harmed a living soul! Kate and Greg are drowning in debt! Have you looked into their finances? Have you checked Greg’s offshore betting accounts? Have you asked them why they needed me to watch Paige on an early Saturday morning when neither of them has worked on a weekend in five years?""
Detective Harris and Miller exchanged a brief, subtle glance. It was minuscule, but I caught it—a flicker of professional hesitation.
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""What do their finances have to do with an infant's broken leg?"" Detective Miller asked, narrowing her eyes.
""Everything,"" I said, leaning forward, holding her gaze with fierce conviction. ""Because my sister never does anything unless there is money at the end of the line.""
