Chapter 3: The Interrogation
Forty-eight hours later.
Despite the protests of my attending physicians, I discharged myself from the hospital early. I wore a tailored black federal agent suit that hid the heavy medical bracing wrapping my torso. My left eye was still swollen shut, surrounded by dark purple bruising, and I walked with a slight limp, but my posture was rigid, unflinching, and absolute.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation regional headquarters in downtown Metro was buzzing with unprecedented activity. Media trucks lined the perimeter streets, flashing lights painted the concrete buildings, and news anchors shouted into cameras about the massive military corruption scandal rocking the nation.
I walked through the double glass doors of the interview wing, the heavy sound of my heels echoing off the polished floors. Agents from various agencies stopped, stepping aside to make way for me, eyeing my visible injuries with a mixture of awe and grim respect.
Inside Interrogation Room B, Grant Hart sat alone at a cold aluminum table.
He was no longer wearing his three-thousand-dollar Italian suit. He wore an orange federal detainee jumpsuit. His hair was messy, his eyes were bloodshot, and his hands were cuffed to a heavy steel ring bolted to the center of the table. The smooth, charming billionaire had vanished; in his place sat a desperate, terrified animal.
I opened the door and walked in, carrying a thick black folder. I didn’t sit down immediately. I stood across from him, resting my hands on the back of the metal chair.
Grant looked up, his face contorting in a mix of fury and disbelief. “Evelyn… look at you. You look like hell.”
“And yet,” I said, pulling out the chair and sitting down slowly, holding back a sharp intake of breath as my ribs protested, “I’m the one sitting on this side of the table.”
“This is insane!” Grant yelled, leaning forward as far as his chains would allow. “You set me up! You’ve been living in my house, sleeping in my bed, playing the dutiful little wife while spying on me?!”
“I didn’t set you up, Grant,” I said quietly, opening the folder and laying out three photographic prints. “You set yourself up. I just took notes.”
I pushed the first photograph toward him. It was a high-resolution satellite image of a massive shipping depot in Antwerp. “This is where eighty-three million dollars of taxpayers’ money was supposed to buy high-grade titanium for defense sub-assemblies. Instead, you bought painted scrap metal and forged the metallurgical certificates.”
I pushed the second photograph forward. It was a digital bank ledger showing his personal signature authorizing a transfer to an account registered to a shell company called Vanguard Holdings. “This is where you took a twenty-million-dollar kickback.”
And finally, I pushed the third photograph forward.
It was a photo taken by the local police forensics unit three nights ago. It showed my blood spilled across the white marble floor of our kitchen, right next to the dented kitchen counter where he had smashed my head.
Grant stared at the third photo, his jaw clenching. He tried to look away, but I leaned forward, my tone dropping to a sharp whisper.
“Look at it, Grant.”
“I… I lost my temper,” Grant muttered, his voice cracking. “You were threatening my life’s work! You were going to ruin everything I built!”
“You almost killed a Federal Agent during the execution of her duty,” I said. “That isn’t domestic abuse anymore, Grant. That’s attempted murder of a federal officer. That carries a mandatory life sentence in a federal penitentiary with no possibility of parole.”
Grant’s face turned pale. “No… no, Richard said—”
“Richard Vance is currently in Interrogation Room D,” I interrupted smoothly. “And unlike you, Richard is smart. He’s spent the last two hours giving us every password, every encrypted key, and every name involved in your network in exchange for a plea deal that keeps him out of a maximum-security facility.”
Grant’s eyes widened in sheer horror. “He… he snitched?”
“Of course he did,” I said with a faint laugh. “Honesty among thieves is a myth created by people like you to keep your foot soldiers quiet. You are entirely alone, Grant. Your political allies have issued public statements disowning you. Your assets are frozen. Your company stock dropped to zero thirty minutes ago. And your parents-in-law? They’re currently selling their luxury vehicles just to retain a public defender.”
Grant slumped back in his chair, the weight of his reality finally crushing him. Tears of helpless frustration pooled in his eyes.
“Why?” Grant whispered, looking at me with genuine confusion. “Why didn’t you just tell me? We were married! We could have shared everything! I would have given you millions!”
“You really don’t get it, do you?” I said, standing up from the chair. I gathered the photos, putting them neatly back into the black folder. “You thought my job was boring. You thought I was weak because I didn’t boast, because I didn’t wear expensive clothes, because I didn’t care about your charity galas.”
I stepped up to the table, looking down at him.
“I took an oath to protect this country from enemies, both foreign and domestic,” I said, my voice echoing with absolute finality. “You weren’t just a abusive husband, Grant. You were a domestic enemy. And handling you was the easiest assignment of my career.”
I turned on my heel and walked out of the interrogation room, locking the heavy steel door behind me, leaving Grant alone with the echo of his own chains.
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