Chapter 2 - The Interrogation
The police precinct smelled of stale coffee, cheap floor wax, and despair. It was 3:00 AM. I had been separated from Owen, who was currently under temporary hospital supervision, and placed in a small interview room.
Detective Marcus Vance sat across from me. He didn't look like the angry cops you see on television; he looked tired, which made him far more dangerous. He flipped through a folder containing photographs of Hannah’s bruises.
“Mr. Parker, your mother gives a very compelling account,” Detective Vance began, tapping a pen against the metal table. “She says you have a history of explosive anger. She says the pressure of your new corporate promotion in St. Louis has made you volatile. She claims she came to the house because Hannah called her in tears, terrified of your temper.”
I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. The sheer audacity of Patricia’s lies was staggering. “My mother is a master manipulator, Detective. I’ve spent my entire life watching her rewrite history to make herself the hero or the victim. I have never raised a hand to my wife. I love Hannah more than my own life.”
“Then explain the finger-shaped contusions on her wrists and upper arms,” Vance countered, leaning forward. “Medical forensics indicate those bruises are approximately forty-eight to seventy-two hours old. Where were you forty-eight hours ago?”
“I was in St. Louis!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the table. “I can show you my hotel receipts. I can show you my GPS logs. I can show you the log-ins from my corporate laptop. I was three hundred miles away!”
“We’re verifying your alibi, Mr. Parker. Calm down,” Vance said calmly. “But even if you weren't physically there when the bruises happened, your mother’s statement implies a pattern of emotional abuse that drove your wife to self-harm. She suggests Hannah grabbed herself during a panic attack.”
“That is biologically impossible and you know it!” I snapped. “Look at the angle of the thumbprints in those photos. Those are external. Someone grabbed her from the front, pinning her down. Someone held her captive in that bed while she was burning alive with a postpartum infection.”
Vance watched me closely, evaluating my rage. After a long silence, he sighed and closed the folder. “Your alibi for the physical assault checks out, Ethan. Your corporate keycard logs place you in a conference room in St. Louis during the exact window the medical examiner estimates the bruising occurred. You didn't do this.”
A wave of relief washed over me, followed immediately by a cold, sharp terror. “If I didn't do it… then you know who did.”
“We have an allegation from a family member, and we have physical evidence. But your wife hasn't officially accused anyone yet,” Vance said. “She’s sedated, and when she was awake, she was too terrified to speak clearly. Until she gives a formal statement naming her attacker, or until we find forensic evidence inside your home, our hands are tied regarding your mother. But social services is still filing a temporary protection order. You cannot take your son home until the home environment is deemed safe.”
I stood up, my chair screeching against the linoleum. “My home is safe, as long as my mother isn't in it. I need to go back there. I need to see what she did to my house. What she did to my wife.”
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“Go home, Ethan,” Vance advised softly. “But do not approach your mother. She has already retained a high-profile family attorney and is threatening to sue for temporary custody of your son, claiming both you and your wife are unfit parents.”
My blood ran cold. Patricia wasn't just trying to dodge a criminal charge; she was trying to steal my son. She wanted a do-over child, a blank slate she could control completely, just like she had tried to control me.
