Interrogation

The heat from the explosion washed over their backs, a momentary, terrifying warmth in the freezing night. Claire didn't turn around. She gripped David's hand and ran, the snow crunching under their boots, the woods swallowing them whole.

Behind them, the shouts of the FBI agents were lost in the roar of the fire. Thomas had bought them time. Not much, but enough.

They stumbled out of the tree line onto the main road a mile north of the facility. Sarah was waiting, the engine of the stolen sedan idling, the girls huddled in the back seat.

"Where is he?" Sarah asked as they piled in, her voice shrill with panic. "Where's Thomas?"

David slammed the door. He didn't look at her. "Drive."

They drove in silence for an hour, the car a bubble of fear and exhaustion moving through the dark. Claire watched the mile markers flash by, counting the distance between them and the ruin of their lives.

But you couldn't outrun a federal indictment.

The roadblock was waiting at the state line.

Blue lights, barricades, armed officers.

"Don't stop," Sarah whispered.

"We have to," David said, easing his foot off the gas. "If we run, they'll shoot."

He pulled the car over.

The officers approached with guns drawn. They didn't ask for ID. They didn't ask for registration. They knew exactly who was in the car.

"Claire Vance," the lead officer said, shining a flashlight into her face. "Step out of the vehicle."

They separated them immediately. The girls were taken by a social worker who appeared out of the darkness like a grim spectre. Sarah was put in a patrol car. David was handcuffed and shoved into a van.

Claire was taken to an interrogation room.

It was small, gray, and smelled of stale coffee and despair. A single metal table. Two chairs. A mirror that wasn't a mirror.

She sat there for hours. No one came in. No one offered her water. It was a tactic. Let the suspect stew. Let the fear ferment.

Finally, the door opened.

A detective walked in. He was older, with tired eyes and a suit that had seen better decades. He carried a thick file folder.

He sat down across from her. He didn't speak. He just opened the folder and started laying out photos.

The burning jet.

Arthur’s body.

Silas’s body.

The explosion at Willow Creek.

"Quite a trail of destruction for a soccer mom," the detective said.

"I didn't kill anyone," Claire said.

"Technically true," the detective said. "But you were there. At every scene. And you're the one with the motive."

He slid a paper across the table. It was a bank statement.

*Account Holder: Claire Vance.*
*Balance: $5,000,000.00.*

"Explain that," he said.

"I didn't transfer that money," Claire said. "It was Arthur. Or Marcus. They were framing me."

"Convenient," the detective said. "Considering they're both dead."

He leaned forward.

"We have a witness, Claire. Someone who says you orchestrated the whole thing. The fire. The kidnapping. The theft."

"Who?"

"Your sister-in-law. Sarah Vance."

Claire felt the blood drain from her face. Sarah. The woman who had sworn she was a victim. The woman who had given them the key.

"She's lying," Claire whispered.

"Is she? She says you forced her to help. Threatened her. She says you were obsessed with the money."

"She was part of it!" Claire shouted, slamming her hand on the table. "She knew about Michael! She knew about Thomas! She was complicit for thirty years!"

"Prove it," the detective said calmly.

"I have the ledger," Claire said. "I have the photos."

"We searched you," the detective said. "We searched the car. There was no ledger. No photos. Just a bag of gold bars stolen from a dead man."

Claire stared at him.

The ledger. She had left it in the warehouse. With Silas.

And the phone... the phone with the digital copies.

She checked her pockets. Empty.

She must have dropped it in the woods. Or left it in the car.

"I need my lawyer," she said.

"Your lawyer is a co-conspirator," the detective said. "Aris Thorne is currently in a holding cell down the hall, facing charges of aiding and abetting a fugitive."

"I have the right to counsel."

"You do," a voice said from the doorway.

Claire looked up.

Aris stood there. He wasn't in handcuffs. He was wearing a fresh suit. He looked calm, professional, untouched by the chaos of the night.

He walked into the room and placed a briefcase on the table.

"I'm representing Mrs. Vance," he said.

The detective frowned. "You're a suspect."

"I was a suspect," Aris corrected. "Until I provided the District Attorney with certain... clarifying documents."

He opened the briefcase.

He pulled out a hard drive.

"This drive contains the full digital archive of Thorne & Associates," Aris said. "Every transaction. Every bribe. Every illegal wiretap authorized by Arthur Vance and executed by my father."

He looked at the detective.

"It also contains a recording of a conversation between Sarah Vance and Arthur Vance, dated three days ago. Discussing the disposal of Thomas Vance."

The detective looked at the hard drive. Then at Aris.

"My client remains silent," Aris said. "And we are counter-suing for defamation."