Chapter 3 - The Statement
The smell of stale coffee and printer toner inside the Pittsburgh Police Headquarters felt infinitely more welcoming than the sterile, suffocating air of Lorraine’s condo.
Detective Marcus Vance was a man who looked like he had seen every variety of human misery and had long since run out of patience for cheap lies. He sat behind a scarred metal desk piled high with manila folders, rubbing his temples as he listened to my voice crack through the final details of the night of November 19th.
When I finished, silence hung heavily in the cramped interrogation room. Vance didn't look at me with pity. Instead, his sharp, tired eyes locked onto the black USB drive resting in the center of his blotter like a live grenade.
"Let’s get a few things straight, Mrs. Whitmore," Vance said, his voice deep and deliberate. "You’re accusing your husband—a man who has already given three glowing press interviews to local news outlets about his 'heroic rescue' during a high-rise fire—of not only abandoning you and your four-year-old child, but of intentionally setting the fire for insurance fraud."
"I am," I said, my voice steady now. The terror had burned away, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity. "And Walter Briggs’s footage will prove every word of it."
Vance reached out, picked up the flash drive, and slid it into the side port of his department-issued laptop.
For three excruciating minutes, the room was silent except for the rhythmic clicking of his keyboard and the soft hum of the tower fan in the corner. Vance’s face remained entirely neutral as the video played out on his screen.
I watched his reflection in the dark glass of the monitor. I saw his eyebrows lift slightly at the timestamp showing Derek walking down the basement service stairs with a red plastic fuel container twenty minutes before the alarm. I watched the hard line of his jaw tighten as the camera angle shifted to the ninth-floor landing—crisp, high-definition audio capturing the distinct click-click of the deadbolt turning twice, followed by my muffled screams and Lily’s coughing on the other side of the wood.
Vance paused the video on a freeze-frame of Derek’s face staring directly into the lens before turning away.
"Well," Vance breathed out slowly, leaning back in his squeaky chair. "That is about as clear-cut as a prosecutor could ever dream of. That’s arson in the second degree, reckless endangerment of a minor, and attempted insurance fraud. Coupled with the audio of him locking you inside... Mr. Halston is looking at a very long stay in a very small room."
"Can you arrest him now?" I asked, leaning forward.
"We need to execute a search warrant for his financial records and verify the serial numbers on that fuel container," Vance said, tapping a pen against his notepad. "If we move too fast, he’ll scrub his offshore accounts and claim the video is deep-faked. Give me forty-eight hours, Megan. We’re going to set a trap. And when we spring it, we’re going to make sure he doesn't have a single escape hatch."
"What about my daughter?" I asked, my voice dropping. "He threatened to use the family court to take her away from me. He told the preliminary custody evaluator that I was an unfit mother."
Vance gave me a reassuring, albeit grim, smile. "Let him try. Family court judges don't look kindly on men who try to burn their wives alive for an insurance payout. When we pick him up, Child Protective Services will be notified immediately to secure an emergency protective custody order in your favor. You and Lily are going to be safe."
By the time I walked out of the police precinct, the sun was beginning to dip below the Pittsburgh skyline, casting long, bruised shadows across the pavement.
When I unlocked the door to Lorraine’s condo using the spare key Derek had given me, the apartment was dead silent. Lorraine was sitting in her white leather armchair, watching a rerun of a home-shopping network show with the volume muted.
"Where have you been?" she snapped, not even bothering to turn her head. "Derek called twice. He’s meeting with the primary insurance adjuster at the downtown office and wants us ready to pack our things for a temporary rental house in Sewickley. And wipe your feet; you’re tracking soot onto the imported wool rug."
I looked at her—at the way she clutched a fleece throw blanket around her shoulders, at the haughty, dismissive tilt of her chin. She had spent decades enabling her son’s narcissism, covering up his failures, and treating everyone around her like inferior service staff.
"I went for a walk, Lorraine," I said quietly, walking past her toward the guest bedroom where Lily was coloring in a small notebook.
"Well, don't make a habit of it," she sneered. "My son has enough on his plate trying to rebuild our lives after your little panic attack nearly got us all killed."
May you like
I didn't answer. I walked into the bedroom, scooped Lily up into my arms, and buried my face in her soft curls.
Just forty-eight hours, I told myself, closing my eyes as the countdown officially began. Just forty-eight hours until the house of cards comes crashing down.
