Chapter 9 - The Confession in Holding Cell B
The county holding facility downtown smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale panic. The bulletproof glass of Holding Cell B was smudged with fingerprints, and the fluorescent light overhead flickered with a persistent, maddening buzz.
Edward Vance sat at the bolted-down stainless-steel table. His tailored suit was wrinkled, his hair slightly unkempt, but the arrogant, predatory smirk that had defined his domestic reign hadn't vanished—it had simply morphed into a desperate, manic confidence.
As Marcus, Clara, and I walked into the secure observation booth overlooking the cell, Edward looked straight through the one-way glass, as if he knew exactly where we were standing.
Special Agent Rachel Vance stood beside us, her arms crossed over her tactical vest. “He won't talk to the local prosecutors, Dr. Sterling. He insisted on you being present before he drops any names.”
Marcus didn't hesitate. He stepped up to the intercom speaker, pressed the activation toggle, and spoke in a voice cold enough to freeze boiling water.
“You’re on speaker, Edward. Start talking before I lose my patience.”
Edward’s smirk widened. He leaned forward, resting his cuffed hands on the metal table, staring directly into the lens of the observation camera.
“Marcus, old man! I knew you’d show up,” Edward chuckled, his voice echoing thinly through the speaker. “You always were the knight in shining armor, swooping in to save Daniel’s little girls. Too bad you’re about twenty years too late to save the family fortune.”
“Save the dramatics for the judge,” Marcus snapped. “You’re facing federal wire fraud, embezzlement, and conspiracy charges that will put you away for the rest of your natural life. The only thing that can save you now is cooperation.”
“Cooperation?” Edward laughed outright, throwing his head back. “Marcus, you still don't get it, do you? You think I drained that trust out of greed? You think I was just playing the heavy in a bad domestic drama?”
He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
“I didn't steal that money for myself, Marcus. I was moving it into the offshore accounts on direct orders from the primary trustee. The person who actually holds the controlling voting shares of Daniel Sterling’s estate.”
My breath hitched. Clara gripped my arm so hard her fingernails dug into my skin.
“There is no other trustee,” I whispered against the glass, my voice shaking. “Dad was the sole founder. The trust was irrevocable!”
“Irrevocable by Daniel, yes,” Edward sneered through the speaker. “But corporate charters can be amended if you have the right legal leverage. And someone very close to this family—someone who pretended to mourn Daniel just as hard as Patricia did—has been pulling the strings since the day your father’s heart monitor flatlined.”
Agent Vance stepped toward the intercom, her eyes sharp. “Name names, Edward. Who is the primary beneficiary?”
Edward smiled, a slow, toxic expression that made my skin crawl. He opened his mouth to speak—
May you like
Bang.
A deafening crack echoed through the facility, followed instantly by the shattering of the observation booth’s thick, bullet-resistant glass.
