Chapter 3: Fractures and Interrogations

When my ex-wife left, she grabbed a mug and smashed it over my head. "Go buy yourself a new family with that blood money!"

The mug shattered on my scalp, coffee splashing my shirt, the pain sharp and oddly cleansing. For a second, I wanted to thank her. At least pain was real. I stumbled, dazed, clutching at the countertop as she stormed out, her sobs echoing down the hallway.

"You took your daughter's blood money. Don't even think of seeing her again in this life!"

Her words rang through the apartment, bouncing off the bare walls. I heard the front door slam, her footsteps fading. For a moment, I just stood there, head throbbing, the sound of her grief ricocheting in my skull.

I clenched and unclenched the money, suddenly wanting to laugh. "She's gone. All of this is empty. Whether we see her again or not, does it matter?"

I sat at the kitchen table, cash spread out in neat piles, staring at it like it might somehow resurrect her. The silence pressed in, broken only by the refrigerator cycling on, the soft ticking of the wall clock. I felt like a ghost in my own home.

In the interrogation room, two police officers stared coldly at me, not missing a single move or word. "From the start, did you pretend to take the money to lower the Carlson family's guard?"

Their eyes were hard, one of them chewing on a toothpick, the other scribbling in a battered notebook. The air smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant, the light too harsh and bright overhead. The chair under me wobbled every time I shifted, making me feel even less in control.

"Let them think that if you took the money, you'd let things go."

The younger cop leaned forward, elbows on the table, the accusation sharp in his tone. I didn’t answer—just watched the clock tick, the hands crawling across the face.

"That's just your speculation and imagination. Do you have evidence?" I stared past the table at the clock on the wall behind them.

The clock was the kind you find in every government building—plain, black numbers, second hand ticking relentless as judgment. I counted each second, measuring my breaths to the rhythm.

Watching the minute hand tick by, it was already 11:30.

The hum of fluorescent lights pressed down on me. Somewhere in the building, a phone rang, then stopped. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath.

I asked, dazed, "Today's June 7th, right?"

Officer Hernandez slapped the table and snapped, "Cut the crap, Parker. You want to spend the night in holding, or you want to come clean?"

His voice cracked across the room, echoing off the cinderblock walls. The older cop flinched, but said nothing, just stared at me like he could see through every lie I’d ever told.

The older officer followed my gaze to the clock, then continued thoughtfully, "Yes, today is June 7th, the first day of the SATs." Half the town’s probably stuck in traffic outside the high school, praying their kids don’t bomb the math section.

He said it softly, almost kindly, as if we were just two dads talking over coffee at the diner. For a moment, I almost forgot where I was.

Seeing my expression change, he went on, "Three years of hard work all comes down to this day."

He sounded tired, like he’d seen too many parents and too many tragedies. I wondered if he had kids of his own, if he’d ever sat outside a testing center with a box of donuts and a nervous smile.

Of course, I noticed his intent, but I still played along. "If Natalie were still alive, she would have taken the test today."

I pictured her—head bent over a practice booklet, biting her lip in concentration, her favorite hoodie pulled up over her hair. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.

"But she can't anymore."

The words came out flat, barely a whisper. My hands trembled beneath the table, nails digging into my palms.

"So why should those who hurt her still be able to take the test in peace?"

I spoke softly, saying exactly what they wanted to hear.

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then, bang—the interrogation room door was suddenly thrown open.

Light flooded in. Not yet used to it, I blinked, almost tearing up from the glare.

I squinted, raising a hand to shield my eyes. It was a relief, after hours under the harsh artificial lights.

Several women stormed in, their faces twisted with rage. One of them, who looked almost exactly like Amber Carlson and was well-preserved for her age, wore the same expression my ex-wife had two months ago.

Her heels clicked sharply on the tile, her eyes bloodshot, mascara streaked beneath them. She carried herself with the kind of authority that comes from years of PTA meetings and boardrooms.

A mother's love for her child—few can escape this law.

The room felt crowded all of a sudden, the air thick with perfume, anger, and desperation. Every mother there looked at me like I was a wild animal backed into a corner.

"You admitted it! It was you who kidnapped my daughter!"

Her voice rose, trembling with fury. Someone behind her murmured, "Let the police handle it, Sharon," but she barely registered the words.

Officer Brown's forehead vein throbbed, but he still tried to keep order. "Mrs. Carlson, we're interrogating. Please don't interfere..."

He stepped in front of her, hands up, trying to play peacekeeper in a room about to explode. His badge glinted under the lights, his voice all clipped professionalism.

"Interrogate what? What's left to interrogate?"

She was like a furious lioness, wishing she could tear me apart. "Where did you hide my daughter?"

Her voice cracked on the last word. The other mothers pressed closer, eyes blazing. I could see the raw pain etched across their faces—the fear, the fury, the unwillingness to believe this was really happening to them.

But this time, she was the one being held back, with people next to her urging her to calm down.

A policewoman put a gentle hand on her arm, whispering something soothing. Mrs. Carlson shook her off, still glaring at me like she might lunge across the table.

I spread my hands, my tone calm and steady. "I've been detained here. You've surely searched my place already. No evidence, so it's time to let me go, right?"

I leaned back, forcing myself to sound bored, like none of this could touch me anymore. I met Mrs. Carlson's gaze head-on, daring her to see what she'd helped create.