Chapter 4 - The Confession of Arthur
Arthur sat at the metal table in interview room B, looking distinctly smaller without his tailored wedding suit jacket. His tie was loose, and his hands were folded neatly in front of him, though his fingers twitched nervously against one another.
The door clicked open, and I stepped inside, closing it heavily behind me. The latch echoed like a gunshot in the tiny, windowless room.
I didn't sit down. I leaned against the door, crossing my arms over my chest, and stared down at him.
Arthur cleared his throat, trying to summon up a fraction of his previous arrogance. "Listen here, Captain. My son is the victim of a vicious assault by a juvenile delinquent. If you think intimidation is going to work—"
"Stop talking, Arthur," I said quietly.
The absolute flatness of my tone cut him off mid-sentence.
"Do you know what happens in a military tribunal when an officer covers up a war crime?" I asked, taking a slow step toward the table. "They don't just strip his rank. They strip his pension, his dignity, and his freedom. They make sure everyone bears the shame of what they allowed to happen."
Arthur swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the two-way mirror on the wall. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Wade isn't your first son, is he, Arthur?" I asked softly.
Arthur’s face went completely, bloodlessly white. The twitch in his fingers stopped entirely.
"I read the public records before I caught my flight," I lied smoothly, watching his reaction. "Back in Ohio, twenty-five years ago. A quiet family. An accident involving an uncle. A little boy who fell down the stairs too many times. But the coroner’s report noted blunt-force trauma inconsistent with a fall."
It was a bluff—a tactical gamble based on the terrified way Arthur had hissed at his wife back in the living room: Not again, Patricia.
Arthur brought a trembling hand up to cover his mouth. "That... that was sealed. That was an accident."
"Nothing is ever truly sealed when a child dies, Arthur," I said, leaning over the table, my face inches from his. "And now your grandson is sitting in the next room, bearing the exact same marks. The same bruises. The same locked doors. You knew, didn't you? When you saw those photos on Ava's phone, you didn't look surprised. You looked terrified because you knew your son inherited your favorite family tradition."
"He was just... he was out of control!" Arthur burst out, his voice cracking with a mixture of panic and defensive fury. "Wade didn't mean to—he just wanted to teach him discipline! Just like I taught Wade! You don't understand what it's like trying to raise a broken child!"
"A six-year-old boy is not broken, Arthur. You and your son are the disease," I said, my voice dripping with absolute contempt.
The door to the observation room clicked open, and Detective Miller stepped in, holding a digital audio recorder in his hand, its red light blinking steadily.
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Miller looked at Arthur with a cold, professional smile. "Thank you for the statement, Mr. senior. That recording is going to look fantastic in front of a judge."
Arthur slumped forward in his chair, his head hitting the metal table with a dull thud. The house of cards was down.
