Chapter 5 - The Interrogation
Mark arrived twelve minutes later, his car tires screeching into the driveway. He burst through the front door, his face pale with panic, having abandoned a high-stakes client presentation the second my frantic text message—CPS AT THE HOUSE. MOM CALLED THEM. GET HOME NOW.—flashed across his phone screen.
"Where are they?" Mark demanded, slamming the door behind him.
"In the living room," I said quietly, sitting at the kitchen island with my hands clasped tightly in my lap. I had spent the last ten minutes refusing to answer any substantive questions without my husband and legal counsel present.
Mark strode into the living room where Agent Vance and the officer were sitting. I followed right behind him.
"I am Mark Thompson, Julia's husband," Mark said, his voice hard, projecting absolute authority. "Before you ask another question or look at another room in this house, I want the name of the intake supervisor who flagged this priority level, and I want it noted for the record that this is a retaliatory filing directly tied to an active eviction proceeding currently registered with our attorney."
Agent Vance looked up, her pen pausing over her clipboard. "Mr. Thompson, we take all reports seriously regardless of the domestic context. However, we have already conducted a preliminary walkthrough of the common areas, inspected the child's bedroom—which is clean, well-stocked, and personalized—and reviewed your household tax and employment records."
"And?" Mark asked, stepping defensively in front of me.
"And the physical conditions of the home are immaculate," Agent Vance admitted. "There is no sign of physical neglect, substance abuse, or material deprivation. However, our primary concern under this specific filing is the emotional climate and the ongoing dispute involving the third-party adults residing in the lower level."
"You mean my mother and father, who were served with a legal thirty-day notice to vacate seven days ago?" Mark shot back. "Yes, they are living in our basement. And yes, they are the ones who filed this malicious report out of spite because my wife finally had enough of their abuse toward our adopted daughter."
Agent Vance was silent for a moment. She closed her clipboard with a soft snap. "We are required to speak with Peggy when she arrives. Her school bus stops at the corner at three-fifteen. That is in twelve minutes. We will conduct the interview in your presence, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, in a neutral space."
"No," a voice echoed from the hallway.
We all turned. Arthur was standing there now, leaning on his cane, looking frail, pathetic, and entirely calculated. Behind him stood Eleanor, wearing her martyr expression like a crown of thorns.
"What did you say, Arthur?" Mark snarled, taking a step toward him.
"I said no," Arthur rasped, playing his part to absolute perfection. "You shouldn't subject that poor girl to your intimidation tactics while she’s being questioned by state officials. The child is terrified of you both. Everyone in the family knows how volatile your household has become since you started screaming at us last week."
I felt something snap inside my head. The last fragile thread of civilized restraint parted.
"You lying, manipulative old bastard," I stepped forward, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it burned. "You sat in that den and watched your wife tell an eight-year-old orphan that she wasn't real family on her birthday! You watched her cry in a bathroom alone! And now you’re using her as a weapon to save your own miserable skins from an eviction notice?"
"Mrs. Thompson, please," the police officer stepped between us, his hand hovering over his belt. "Keep your voice down."
"No, officer, look at them!" I pointed a shaking finger at my parents. "They have lived under my roof for five years without paying a dime! I fed them, I clothed them, I gave them dignity when they lost everything! And this is how they repay me? By trying to steal my daughter through a fabricated state investigation?"
Agent Vance looked between us, her professional facade cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of deep exhaustion. She had seen messy family feuds before—hundreds of them. She knew the stink of weaponized bureaucracy when she smelled it.
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Before anyone else could speak, the front gate clicked open.
Through the living room window, we all saw the big yellow school bus pull up to the curb. The pneumatic doors hissed open, and down the steps hopped Peggy, her bright yellow backpack bouncing against her shoulders, holding a small paper flower she must have made in art class.
