Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The fluorescent lights of the state welfare intake center buzzed with a dull, maddening hum that drilled straight into my temples.
I sat alone at a cold metal table in a small, windowless room, wrapped in a scratchy gray blanket that smelled of industrial bleach. Across from me sat a caseworker named Mrs. Gable—a tired-looking woman with circles under her eyes and a stack of forms clutched in her hand.
“Emma, I need you to look at me,” Mrs. Gable said gently, tapping a pen against the metal table. “We just want to understand what happened. Did Mr. Anderson force you to go to his house? Did he tell you not to talk to the police?”
“No!” I insisted, my voice shaking as I stared down at my scuffed sneakers. “He gave me soup! He gave me cookies! He told me I didn't have to sleep in the park anymore!”
“Sweetheart, wealthy men like Daniel Anderson don't just pick stray children off the street out of the goodness of their hearts,” Mrs. Gable sighed, her tone heavy with a cynical weariness born from years of working broken systems. “People in his position have lawyers, public relations teams, and private agendas. He brought you into his home without logging it through proper channels. That’s a serious crime.”
“He was helping me!” Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, splashing against the metal surface of the table. “Nobody else ever looked for me! When Greg left me behind, nobody came! Why are you trying to take the only person who cared?”
Before Mrs. Gable could answer, the heavy steel door of the interrogation room banged open against the concrete wall.
Director Hayes stepped into the room, her face pale, holding a glowing tablet in her hand. She looked at me, then at the caseworker, her professional composure visibly cracking at the edges.
“Sharon, stop the intake process right now,” Director Hayes ordered, her breath coming short.
Mrs. Gable frowned, dropping her pen. “What are you talking about? We still have to complete the mandatory seventy-two-hour hold protocol before—proven placement can be evaluated.”
“We don't have seventy-two minutes,” Director Hayes whispered, setting the tablet down on the table so the screen faced us. “Look at the news ticker.”
I glanced down at the screen. A breaking news banner from a major Portland news station was flashing in bright red letters:
BREAKING: Federal authorities and state prosecutors have just raided the downtown offices of a fraudulent foster placement network linked to ‘Greg’ Miller. Investigators uncover systemic child abandonment and embezzlement ring across three counties.
My breath caught in my throat. Greg.
“That’s not all,” Director Hayes continued, swallowing hard. “Thirty seconds ago, the state attorney general’s office received a direct legal filing from Daniel Anderson’s legal team backed by federal affidavits. Not only was the emergency warrant against him ruled void due to judicial misconduct, but federal marshals have just frozen the assets of the very oversight board that authorized this midnight raid.”
The door behind them pushed open wider.
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A familiar tall figure stepped into the harsh light of the room, his dark hair slightly ruffled, his jaw set in stone. He wasn't wearing a suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up, and his stormy gray eyes locked onto mine across the room.
Daniel had come for me.
