Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The fluorescent lights of the Cook County Memorial Hospital trauma bay were harsh, white, and unrelenting.
I sat on the edge of the examination bed while an emergency physician placed seven black suture stitches into the left side of my scalp. The stinging sensation of the local anesthetic was nothing compared to the deep, thumping ache inside my skull, but my mind remained crystal clear—sharpened into an icy point by the sheer momentum of what I had unleashed.
A female detective named Karen Diaz stood near the door, a leather-bound notepad open in her hands.
“Seven stitches, a mild concussion, and minor soft-tissue bruising,” Detective Diaz noted, writing rapidly. “Your statement indicates Arthur Vance struck you with a solid silver cake stand weighing approximately six pounds after you refused to hand over the title to your vehicle?”
“Yes,” I said, wincing slightly as the doctor tied off the fourth stitch. “There were approximately two hundred witnesses in the room. And at least thirty of them were filming on their smartphones.”
Diaz gave a grim, satisfied nod. “We’ve already secured the hotel’s CCTV footage from the ballroom. The video is clear, Ms. Vance. Your father was taken into custody in the hotel lobby twenty minutes ago. He didn't go quietly.”
I closed my eyes for a second, letting out a slow, steady breath. “Did he say anything?”
“He demanded his lawyer, called you an ungrateful sociopath, and told the arresting officer that he owned half the precinct,” Diaz said dryly. “He’s about to discover that his ownership claims are somewhat outdated.”
Diaz stepped closer, setting a small plastic bag containing my blood-stained clutch on the side table.
“The fraud allegations you made in the ballroom—the bank analyst from First Midwest is already at the station with your forged loan documents,” she said. “The State’s Attorney’s Financial Crimes Division has opened a formal file. You didn't just give us an assault case, Ms. Vance. You gave us the keys to a master-class corporate embezzlement investigation.”
“I’m a forensic analyst, Detective,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “I don't bring accusations without bringing the general ledger.”
At 1:00 AM, after being cleared by the attending physician with strict instructions regarding concussion protocols, I stepped out through the hospital’s automatic glass doors into the cool night air.
My BMW X5 was still parked under the Hawthorne Hotel’s awning, guarded by a solitary private security guard the hotel manager had assigned to ensure no further incidents occurred on their property.
The deep blue metallic paint sparkled under the streetlamps. The interior was untouched. The title was still safe in my glove compartment.
I unlocked the door with my key fob, climbed into the driver’s seat, and closed the door.
The quiet, heavy silence of the cabin wrapped around me like a shield. I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, feeling the sharp sting of the seven stitches against my scalp, and let out a single, long breath that I felt like I had been holding for six years.
My phone vibrated in my hand.
It was a text from an unknown number—a text that could only have come from my mother’s phone using a relative’s device:
Evelyn, your father is in a holding cell. The lawyers say his bail will be set at five hundred thousand dollars and the bank has frozen all our personal accounts. Madison is crying hysterically. How could you do this to your own blood? Delete those files and tell the police it was an accident before you ruin us completely.
I stared at the screen for ten seconds.
May you like
Then, I opened my contacts, selected my mother, father, and sister, and pressed Block.
I put the car in drive, pulled out into the empty Chicago streets, and drove home.
