Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room at the 19th Precinct
The holding area of the 19th Precinct smelled of industrial bleach and old coffee. Unlike the polished white corridors of New York-Presbyterian or the grand marble foyer of the Hartwell townhouse, this space was raw, fluorescent, and indifferent to wealth.
Mara used her standing as an officer of the court to secure a brief, unofficial consultation room separate from Malcolm’s holding cell. Five minutes later, the heavy metal door clicked open, and Lydia Hartwell walked in.
She wasn't wearing her linen blouse anymore. She wore a standard gray detention jumpsuit, her hair pulled back into a loose, unstyled knot that made her look older, smaller, yet somehow more dangerous. When she saw me sitting at the metal table with Mara, she didn't flinch. She pulled out the opposite chair with a slow, deliberate scrape and sat down.
"You look pale, Evelyn," Lydia said, her voice dry and devoid of its usual television polish. "They aren't giving you proper iron levels, I suppose. Standard obstetrics is nothing more than an assembly line."
"Save the wellness lecture, Lydia," I said, leaning forward over the cold metal surface. "Arthur was just in my hospital room. He offered me a twenty-million-dollar trust and a clean divorce in exchange for signing an NDA about Aurelia House. He also made it very clear that he considers you a corporate liability."
Lydia’s expression didn't change, but her hand—resting flat on the table—tightened into a fist so hard her knuckles turned white.
"Arthur is a parasite," she said, her voice dropping into a low, venomous hiss. "He spent forty years taking the natural breakthroughs developed in my clinic and turning them into synthetic chemical derivatives for his board members to sell at a markup. Aurelia House was never a pharmaceutical testing ground until Arthur's investors forced their compliance metrics onto my books."
"You still administered those drops to me every morning," I reminded her, my voice hard. "You locked me in my own home. You forged my medical proxy."
"To protect you!" Lydia snapped, slamming her palm against the table with a sharp crack that echoed in the small room. "Do you think Arthur cared about your twins? To him, they were just generation three of the Hartwell corporate portfolio! I wanted you to give birth naturally, safely, away from his board members and his sterile incubators. I wanted to break the cycle of control that man has held over every woman who ever married into this family!"
Mara leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "That's a very touching narrative, Mrs. Hartwell, but the federal prosecutor's office isn't going to buy maternal philosophy when they look at the financial routing through Hartwell-Bio. My office received an anonymous metadata drop from your personal internal server twenty minutes ago. It links the foundation's funding directly to Arthur's offshore accounts."
Lydia stared at Mara, then slowly shifted her gaze back to me. A thin, grim smile touched her lips.
"You think I'm the one who sent you that file?" Lydia asked softly.
"Didn't you?" I asked, frowning.
"I didn't have to," Lydia said, leaning back into her chair with a strange, dark satisfaction. "Arthur didn't just come to your hospital room today to offer you a settlement, Evelyn. He came to make sure you didn't look at the corporate filings for the trust he set up for Malcolm three years ago—the trust funded by the exact same patents he stole from my foundation's early research."
Mara's phone buzzed violently on the table before either of us could speak. She glanced down at the screen, and her professional composure instantly shattered.
"Evelyn," Mara whispered, her face pale. "That wasn't an anonymous tip from Lydia's server. That was an automated legal notification from the probate court. Malcolm just filed an emergency counter-suit."
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"On what grounds?" I demanded.
"He isn't contesting the divorce," Mara said, looking up with horror in her eyes. "He’s petitioning the court for emergency guardianship of the unborn twins, claiming that your medical history, combined with the stress of this investigation, makes you an 'incapacitated parent'—backed by an affidavit signed by Arthur Hartwell himself."
