Chapter 6 - The Interrogation
Two hours later, the sub-basement library of Blackwood Manor had been transformed into an interrogation room.
The heavy oak doors were bolted shut from the inside. The antique leather armchairs had been pushed back against the mahogany bookshelves, leaving an open space in the center of the Persian rug where a single wooden chair sat directly beneath the harsh glare of an overhead brass reading lamp.
Cynthia Vance sat in that chair.
Her designer silk nightgown had been replaced by a plain gray security jumpsuit. Her hair was messy, her makeup smeared across her cheeks from hours of hysterical crying that had yielded no sympathy from her captors.
The door unlocked with a sharp click.
Julian walked into the room. He wasn't wearing his bathrobe anymore; he was dressed in a tailored charcoal three-piece suit, every button fastened, looking like an executioner stepping onto a scaffold. In his right hand, he carried a thick manila folder. Behind him walked Marcus Vance, carrying a heavy digital tablet displaying the high-definition security footage from the cove six years ago.
Julian didn't look at her as he walked past. He sat down behind the heavy mahogany desk, placing the folder directly in the center, and opened it with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
Cynthia’s eyes darted toward him, her chest heaving as she tried to force her voice into a trembling, innocent lilt.
“Julian... please... you’re terrifying me,” she whimpered, squeezing her hands together in her lap. “What is the meaning of this? Why am I locked in here? Where are my clothes? My phone? My family will call the police when they realize—!”
“Your family won't be calling anyone, Cynthia,” Julian interrupted. His voice was completely flat, drained of all emotion, carrying the weight of a judge reading a death sentence.
He slid the tablet across the desk, turning the screen toward her.
On the screen, playing in crystal-clear loop, was the security footage from six years ago: Cynthia stepping out from behind the boulders on the rocky cove, raising the lead pipe, and striking David Sterling across the temple.
Cynthia stopped breathing.
The color drained from her face so fast it looked like someone had thrown white ash over her skin. Her jaw went slack, her eyes fixated on the screen as her own face replayed the cold-blooded murder she had successfully buried for over two thousand days.
“Where... where did you get that?” she whispered, her voice losing all its theatrical softness, turning thin, dry, and terrified.
“You forgot about the grandfather’s military-grade surveillance network,” Julian said softly, leaning his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. “You thought you outsmarted the local police. You thought you manipulated a tragic drowning accident. You even convinced my father on his deathbed that David had run off to South America with a mistress.”
Cynthia swallowed hard, her fingernails digging deep into the fabric of her jumpsuit. She realized in that instant that denial was completely useless. The mask had shattered beyond repair.
Slowly, her shoulders slumped. The trembling stopped, replaced by a cold, rigid stillness.
“He was going to ruin everything, Julian,” Cynthia said, her voice dropping into a harsh, bitter whisper. Her eyes flashed with sudden malice. “Your father was rewriting his will. He was going to give controlling shares of the entire estate to David—an alcoholic, reckless failure who couldn't run a lemonade stand, let alone a multi-billion-dollar real estate empire!”
“So you murdered him,” Julian stated calmly.
“I secured our future!” Cynthia snapped back, leaning forward into the light, her eyes wide and unhinged. “I built you! I pushed you to take over the board! I stood by your side at every charity gala, every corporate takeover, every board meeting! I made you the most powerful man in Philadelphia! What’s the life of one worthless brother compared to what we built together?!”
Julian didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice.
“David was my only brother,” Julian said quietly. “And tonight, Clara Jenkins walked into the conservatory while you were checking the cistern logs. She saw you, didn't she?”
Cynthia’s face hardened. “That meddling old bitch. She was snooping around the east wing looking for missing linen inventories. She found the old construction keys to the cistern bulkhead. She figured out I had been down there reviewing the seal.” Cynthia sneered. “I was going to make it look like a tragic accident on the glass. Just like David. But you had to ruin it.”
Julian stood up slowly from behind the desk. He walked around the mahogany wood, stopping just two feet away from her chair. He looked down at the woman he had loved, feeling nothing—not even anger. Just a profound, crystal-clear emptiness.
“The police are already on their way, Cynthia,” Julian said. “Not the local precinct you bribed six years ago. Federal marshals. State prosecutors. The full weight of the United States justice system.”
Cynthia looked up at him, her lips curling into a desperate, chilling smirk.
“You won't do it, Julian,” she laughed softly, though her eyes were filled with panic. “Think about the headlines. The scandal! The Sterling empire stock would drop fifty points by noon tomorrow if the media finds out my fiancée murdered your brother and you covered it up for weeks. You’ll destroy your own legacy just to punish me.”
Julian reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a single sheet of embossed corporate letterhead, laying it gently on her lap.
“At 8:00 AM this morning,” Julian said calmly, “I called an emergency session of the Sterling Board of Directors. I resigned as CEO, liquidated my personal equity holdings into a blind charitable trust bearing my brother’s name, and appointed Marcus Vance as head of the family estate.”
Cynthia stared at the paper in horror. Her smirk vanished instantly.
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“You... you gave it all up?” she gasped. “For a dead man?!”
“I gave up my empire to buy your cage,” Julian replied, turning his back on her as Marcus stepped forward with a pair of cold, heavy steel handcuffs. “See you in hell, Cynthia.”
