Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the corporate headquarters of Vance Global Enterprises smelled faintly of industrial disinfectant and stale coffee.
David Vance sat at the head of the polished mahogany conference table, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened slightly at the collar. He looked confident, the practiced swagger of a corporate executive accustomed to dictating terms to anyone foolish enough to cross his path.
Across the table sat two independent forensic investigators hired by the board of directors, flanked by corporate counsel.
"I think there’s been a massive misunderstanding here," David said, flashing a tight, patronizing smile as he leaned back in his chair. "Trevor Mitchell was a rising star in our department. If there were discrepancies in his expense reports regarding luxury purchases and client entertainment, that's an internal HR matter. Why the board felt the need to bring in external auditors for a simple mid-level audit is beyond me."
The lead investigator, a sharp-eyed woman named Miller, didn't smile back. She slid a thick manila folder across the table and flipped it open, revealing a series of financial wire transfers, corporate credit card logs, and signed authorization slips.
"Mr. Vance, we aren't looking at mid-level expense padding," Miller said smoothly. "We’re looking at a systematic embezzlement scheme totaling over two hundred and forty thousand dollars over the last twelve months. And every single authorization slip bearing a secondary executive signature... traces directly back to your private corporate approval code."
David’s smile flickered, just for a fraction of a second, before settling back into an expression of controlled irritation. "That's absurd. I sign thousands of authorization slips a week. People make administrative errors. Trevor submitted receipts under client development codes—how was I supposed to vet every single dinner in Uptown?"
"Because the dinners weren't with clients, Mr. Vance," Miller replied, sliding a second set of documents across the table.
This time, the photos weren't of Trevor and Vanessa.
They were high-resolution bank statements, lease agreements, and corporate wire receipts showing a direct financial pipeline connecting David Vance's discretionary corporate development fund to a luxury condominium in downtown Dallas—a condominium leased exclusively in Vanessa's name, registered three months before she was transferred to the Dallas office.
The color drained entirely from David’s face. The practiced corporate swagger vanished, replaced by a cold, rigid panic as he stared down at the paper trail proving that Vanessa hadn't just been Trevor’s mistress—she had been planted in Trevor’s department by David himself as a strategic pawn in a much larger corporate espionage and embezzlement scheme designed to frame junior management for financial fraud.
"Where... where did you get this?" David stammered, his voice losing its polished composure.
The door to the conference room swung open smoothly.
Sandra Vance stepped into the room, walking with slow, deliberate strides, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. She wore a sharp, tailored navy suit, her expression cool, calculating, and utterly unforgiving.
"Family air tends to get recycled in this building, David," Sandra said, stopping behind the lead investigator's chair and resting her hands on the backrest. "You always were sloppy when you thought nobody was watching."
David stood up abruptly, knocking his chair backward against the carpet. "Sandra! What the hell do you think you're doing here? This is a private corporate matter—"
"This is no longer a corporate matter," Sandra interrupted, her voice cutting through his protest like a scalpel. "This is a criminal conspiracy. The state attorney general's office was served with these exact files thirty minutes ago. Federal marshals are currently securing your personal assets, your secondary accounts, and your corporate terminal downstairs."
David stared at his sister, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as the magnitude of the trap snapped shut around him. He had spent his entire career pulling the strings, manipulating people like pawns on a board, entirely blind to the fact that the quiet, overlooked pieces had finally aligned to checkmate him.
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"You ruined everything," David whispered, his voice trembling with impotent rage.
"No, David," Sandra said, turning her back on him as she gathered her portfolio. "You built a house out of lies, and you finally ran out of walls to hide behind."
