Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room at Dawn
The interrogation room at the downtown precinct smelled of stale cigarette smoke, damp coats, and twenty years of institutional despair.
Patricia Miller sat at the stainless-steel table, wearing her gray holding-cell jumpsuit, her hair slightly disheveled without her morning styling routine. Yet, remarkably, the frantic panic she had shown in the hospital corridor had vanished. In its place was a chilling, arrogant composure. She sat back with her arms crossed, staring directly into the two-way mirror as Detective Morrison slid the black leather ledger across the table.
"Recognize it, Mrs. Miller?" Morrison asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her.
Patricia didn't even glance at the book. She smirked, her lips curling into a cold, condescending line. "It's a notebook. People write things down. That doesn't constitute a federal crime, Detective. And without my lawyer present, any questions you ask regarding my personal financial history are completely inadmissible."
"We aren't just talking about financial history anymore, Patricia," Morrison said, leaning forward into the harsh light. "We have the cloud backup from the nursery camera. We have high-definition audio and video of you assaulting your daughter-in-law, causing the fatal drop of a three-week-old infant. That moves us well past financial fraud. That is second-degree depraved-heart murder."
For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Patricia’s eyes, but she masked it instantly with a dry, humorless laugh.
"A dropped baby is a tragic domestic accident," Patricia snapped back, her voice dripping with venom. "Emily was clumsy, exhausted, and incompetent. Any jury in this state will see a sleep-deprived mother buckling under postpartum stress. As for me? I raised my hand to stop a screaming infant from shattering everyone's nerves. I didn't push the child. Gravity did."
The door to the observation room clicked open behind Morrison.
Emily stepped into the doorway, her face pale, her eyes burning with an intense, unyielding fire that made Patricia’s arrogant smirk instantly falter.
Emily walked slowly around the table, stopping directly behind Morrison’s chair, her gaze locked onto her mother-in-law.
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"Gravity didn't write your name in that ledger, Patricia," Emily said softly, her voice steady and lethal. "And gravity didn't empty my father's trust account the month he died."
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