Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Under the Chandelier
The heavy double doors of Bellefleur Manor slammed shut with a definitive, echoing thud, followed by the metallic click of deadbolts engaging from the outside. The venue’s private security guards, realizing they had jurisdiction-free federal marshals breathing down their necks, wisely stepped back and unlocked the master control panels to hand over the building's digital infrastructure.
Special Agent Marcus Thorne didn't waste a second. He snapped open a portable field terminal on the edge of the pristine white-and-gold buffet table, right beside the shattered remains of the plates Evelyn had forced me into.
"Tech team is en route," Marcus spoke into his lapel communicator, his voice sharp and steady. "I want full data extraction of the ballroom security feeds from the last six hours. Pull every camera angle covering the buffet, the stairs, and the exit corridors. Frame by frame."
Across the room, the atmosphere had mutated from a high-society celebration into a silent, claustrophobic nightmare. The three hundred guests stood huddled together like sheep, whispering behind designer fans and clutching half-empty champagne flutes they no longer dared to drink.
Grant pushed his way past a pair of federal marshals, his face flushed with a desperate mix of arrogance and terror.
"Look here, Agent Thorne," Grant hissed, keeping his voice low as he leaned over the table. "You don't understand how things work in this state. My family’s foundation funds half the federal judicial oversight programs in the district. We can settle this quietly. Name your figure—a retainer, a donation, whatever it takes to make this administrative error vanish before the press gets wind of it."
Marcus didn't even look up from his terminal. He kept typing furiously, his fingers flying across the backlit keys.
"Are you attempting to bribe a federal law enforcement officer in the middle of a felony crime scene investigation, Mr. Blackwood?" Marcus asked, his tone flat and glacial.
Grant blinked, stepping back as if he’d been struck. "I’m offering a pragmatic solution to a—”
"You’re digging a conspiracy obstruction charge right alongside your mother," Marcus interrupted, finally lifting his head. His eyes locked onto Grant with a terrifying intensity. "Step back, or I will cuff you to the radiator right next to your brother's new bride."
Chloe let out a muffled sob from beneath her veil. She had collapsed into one of the velvet-upholstered chairs near the altar, her twenty-thousand-dollar gown pooling around her ankles like spilled milk. Julian Blackwood—her brand-new husband—stood rigidly beside her, refusing to touch her, his eyes darting frantically toward the exit like a trapped animal calculating escape odds.
On the monitor in front of Marcus, the ballroom security feed flickered to life. He tapped a sequence of keys, and the screen rewound to thirty minutes prior.
There, clear as day in high-definition 4K, was Evelyn Thorne-Blackwood.
The camera angle captured every precise detail: my insulin pump being ripped from my waist, the cruel smirk on her face as she tossed it into the bin of wet napkins and lobster shells, and the deliberate, calculated way her hand dipped into her jeweled clutch to retrieve the amber vial of midazolam before forcing the glass of poisoned wine to my lips.
There was no ambiguity. No medical misunderstanding. Premeditated attempted murder, captured in full color for the federal record.
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Marcus stood up slowly, picking up his tablet. He walked straight toward Evelyn, who was still standing rigid and pale against the gold-trimmed wall, refusing to let her posture break despite the trembling in her manicured fingers.
"Mrs. Thorne-Blackwood," Marcus said, holding the glowing tablet inches from her face. "Would you like to narrate the footage for the jury, or shall we save it for the federal grand jury indictment?"
