Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the Oakridge Police Department smelled powerfully of cheap floor wax and old cigarette smoke, even though smoking had been banned for years.
Claire Morgan sat at the metal table wearing a standard-issue orange jumpsuit. Her hair, usually impeccably styled, fell in limp strands around her face. Her hands were cuffed to a bolted metal ring in the center of the table.
The door clicked open, and Ethan walked in.
He didn't wear his suit anymore. He wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his eyes hollow, dark circles bruised deep beneath them like charcoal smudges. He carried a single manila folder, which he dropped onto the table with a heavy thud.
Claire didn't look up immediately. She stared down at her cuffed hands.
"How is she?" Claire asked, her voice flat, devoid of any remorse or human warmth.
"She’s alive," Ethan said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "The doctors say she’s suffering from severe malnutrition, acute kidney stress from dehydration, and a concussion from when you cracked her skull with the candlestick. But she’s going to make it. She spoke to Noah on a secure video call five minutes ago."
Claire’s lips twitched. "She shouldn't have been looking into our father’s estate accounts."
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"
Claire finally raised her head. Her expression was twisted into a bitter, venomous sneer. "Your precious wife thought she was so smart. She discovered that our father didn't leave the family trust entirely to me. He left the primary commercial parcels—the ones worth millions—to her. Not to me. To the younger sister who married a blue-collar nobody."
Claire leaned forward, rattling her chains.
"I needed time to legally dissolve the trust, forge her signature on the deed transfers, and liquidate the accounts before anyone noticed she was gone. And who was going to look for her? Everyone in town thought she was unstable, prone to sudden trips. All I needed was four days. Just four little days to clear out the bank accounts, sell the portfolio, and disappear to the Caymans."
"You locked your own sister in a concrete box to die of thirst," Ethan whispered, his hands curling into tight fists. "You staged a fake body, you bought a casket, you held a funeral... you used my son to help you carry out your sick little execution."
"Noah is a gullible kid," Claire scoffed, rolling her eyes. "He believed whatever I told him. Just like you did, Ethan. You were always so pathetically easy to manipulate."
Ethan didn't yell. He didn't lunge across the table.
Instead, he slowly opened the manila folder and pulled out a single sheet of paper, sliding it across the metal surface toward her.
"What is that?" Claire asked suspiciously.
"That," Ethan said quietly, "is the amended property deed for the Elm Street house and all commercial assets currently registered under the Morgan family name. As of this morning, under emergency civil forfeiture laws and victim restitution statutes, every single cent of your trust, your investments, and your personal bank accounts has been frozen and transferred into a secure medical fund for Lauren and Noah."
Claire’s face lost whatever color remained in it. She snatched the paper up, her eyes scanning the legal jargon frantically.
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"No... no, you can't do that! That's my inheritance! That's mine!" she shrieked, slamming her fists against the table, the chains rattling wildly.
"You don't have an inheritance anymore, Claire," Ethan said, turning toward the heavy steel door. He paused with his hand on the handle, looking back over his shoulder with a look of absolute, chilling indifference. "You have a life sentence."
