Chapter 7 - The Lion's Den
The 14th Police District precinct smelled of stale black coffee, wet raincoats, and old bureaucracy.
At 2:15 AM, the holding facility in the basement was quiet, save for the rhythmic clacking of an old typewriter and the occasional drunken shout from the drunk tank.
Julian walked down the corridor behind a burly sergeant whose silence had cost Julian ten thousand dollars in unrecorded cashier's checks. The attorney, Thomas Briggs, walked two paces behind, clutching an ostrich-skin briefcase, his face pale and sweat-slicked.
The heavy steel door of Interview Room B clicked open.
Victoria Sterling sat at the scarred wooden table. Her silk blouse was stained, her hair falling in wild strands around her face, but her chin remained tilted upward in that familiar, suffocating posture of aristocratic arrogance. She had not eaten the sandwich placed before her. A single gold Cartier bracelet clinked against the table as she raised her handcuffed wrists.
"Julian," she said smoothly, as if he were simply late for Sunday brunch at the country club. "You took your sweet time. Tell this ridiculous officer to remove these chains. I have a board meeting at nine."
Julian didn't sit. He signaled the sergeant, who stepped out and pulled the heavy door shut, leaving only the hum of the overhead fluorescent tube.
Julian tossed the plastic specimen bag containing the Apex Security badge onto the table between them. It landed with a sharp click.
Victoria glanced down at it. Her expression didn't flicker. Not a muscle moved in her face.
"Marcus sent him," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. "To kill Elena. To kill your granddaughter."
Victoria scoffed, leaning back in her chair. "Don't be melodramatic. Marcus is an opportunist, but he’s practical. If someone attacked your little shopkeeper wife, it’s probably one of her own vulgar relatives looking for an insurance payout."
"Stop lying, Mother!" Julian slammed both palms down onto the wood, the impact rattling the handcuffs against the metal table. "I know about Clara."
For the first time in Julian’s life, he watched the impenetrable mask of Victoria Sterling crack.
The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her skin looking like curdled milk beneath her heavy makeup. Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat with a dry, clicking sound.
"What... what did you say?" she whispered.
"Clara didn't die of respiratory distress in the nursery," Julian said, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. "You gave her away. You signed the falsified death certificate, you paid off the county coroner, and you had St. Jude’s bury an empty pine box in the family plot."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Victoria hissed, her voice trembling now, her hands clenching into tight fists. "You were three years old! You know nothing of the pressures of that house!"
"Why?" Julian demanded, his eyes boring into hers with ferocious intensity. "Why would a mother give away her own daughter?"
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Victoria suddenly laughed—a bitter, jagged sound that had no humor in it. Tears finally sprang to her cold eyes, but they were tears of rage, not remorse.
"Because she wasn't your father's daughter, Julian!" Victoria snarled, leaning across the table, spitting the words into his face. "She was Marcus’s!"
