Chapter 6: The Final Audit
The interrogation room at the precinct was a claustrophobic concrete box. The harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights cast deep shadows across the scarred metal table. I sat perfectly still, my bandaged arm resting on the surface. Beside me sat Pierce, the aggressive corporate litigator hired by my pharmaceutical firm.
The heavy steel door groaned open. Vance was escorted in by a uniformed officer. He was still wearing his business casual attire, having been violently yanked out of a meeting at his own company by detectives serving a warrant.
When he saw me sitting there, a flicker of profound confusion crossed his face, instantly hardening into arrogant defiance.
“What the hell is this, Sloan?!” he barked, leaning over the table. “You send the cops to my job to humiliate me? Family disputes are handled at home! Are you actually insane?”
Detective Rollins, a grizzled veteran with tired eyes, slammed a thick manila folder onto the metal table. “Sit down and shut your mouth, sir. This is a federal investigation, not a marriage counseling session.”
Vance flinched, the wind knocked out of him. He sank into the metal chair, forcing a nervous, ingratiating smile at the detective. “Officer, my wife and I are just having a spat. She’s mad because she makes more money than me. This is just a hysterical woman trying to waste police resources.”
I let out a low, chilling laugh that reverberated off the concrete walls. “Vance, do you honestly believe I dragged a corporate attorney and a detective into this room over a measly $3,500?”
Pierce, the lawyer, unclasped his briefcase. “We represent the pharmaceutical corporation, sir. We are pressing formal charges against you for unauthorized cyber access, theft of trade secrets, and corporate espionage.”
Pierce turned a laptop toward Vance and hit play.
The security footage rolled. The man in the mask, the Post-it note, the silver flash drive. And finally, the zoomed-in freeze-frame of the anniversary watch strapped to his wrist.
Vance’s face lost all pigmentation, turning the color of wet chalk. His eyes bulged as the reality of a ten-year federal prison sentence materialized before his eyes. “That… that’s a deepfake! You doctored that!” he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.
Detective Rollins slid the IT network report across the table. “We also have the IP logs, son. You sent a defamatory blackmail email to her board of directors from your home iPad at 11:00 p.m. last night. We’ve already secured a warrant to seize the device. It’s over.”
The illusion of the powerful, manipulative husband shattered entirely. Vance physically crumbled, gripping his hair, his breathing rapid and shallow.
Just then, a commotion echoed in the hallway. Loretta, who had apparently been called by Vance’s panicked coworkers, burst into the observation room, the door cracking open.
“What are you doing to my boy?!” she wailed, trying to push past the guard. “Let him go! He’s a good man!”
I looked at Vance, my eyes devoid of mercy. “Tell your mother what a good man you are, Vance. Tell her why you’re going to a federal penitentiary.”
Panic destroys loyalty. Facing the abyss, Vance snapped. He looked wildly at the detective, then pointed a trembling finger directly at his own mother standing in the doorway.
“It was her!” he screamed, his voice breaking into a hysterical sob. “She made me do it! She wanted the money! She hated Sloan and told me to get her fired so she’d have to obey us! I’m innocent; my mother masterminded the whole thing!”
Loretta froze as if she had been struck by lightning. The theatrical tears vanished. She stared at the precious, golden son she had protected, the son she had scalded me for, who was now eagerly throwing her under a freight train to save his own skin.
“Vance?” she whispered, horrified. “I can’t even send a text message… I didn’t tell you to steal computers…”
“You told me to destroy her!” he shrieked back.
The utter depravity of their bond was exposed under the harsh police lights. A thief shifting the blame to his mother, and a mother realizing her darling boy was a sociopath.
I stood up slowly, reaching into my tote bag. I pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, bound with a blue backing, and dropped them onto the metal table with a heavy thud.
“The $3,500 you stole is a cheap price to pay to see your true souls,” I said, my voice ringing with finality. “These are divorce papers. Sign them. I am demanding the immediate sale of the house. And as for the corporate theft, I will testify against you in federal court. Have a nice life, Vance.”
I walked out of the interrogation room, leaving the mother and son screaming curses at each other, their alliance destroyed by their own greed.
