Chapter 1 - THE PRECINCT BLUE LIGHT
The fluorescent lights in the Columbus Police Department lobby hummed with the high-frequency vibration of a dying neon sign. It was midnight. The linoleum floor was scarred with scuff marks from boots that had walked in with worse news than mine, yet the air felt heavier—thicker, suffocatingly cold.
I sat in a molded plastic chair that rocked slightly on uneven legs, clutching the straps of my black canvas backpack so hard my knuckles were translucent white. Inside the bag, resting against my spare sweatshirt and birth certificate, the silver MacBook felt like lead. It hummed with latent heat, its battery still warm from Ryan’s hands.
My phone vibrated in my hoodie pocket. A text message notification.
Mom: Where are you? It’s past midnight. Bring your brother’s laptop back down; he needs to check something on it.
I stared at the glowing letters. His laptop. They weren't even waiting twenty-four hours to reclaim their insurance policy. If I went back now, the computer would vanish. A new narrative would take its place: Emily took the machine, Emily panicked, Emily must have downloaded those fraudulent files herself in a delusional bid for attention. By morning, the hard drive would be scrubbed, the IP logs spoofed, and I would be sitting in a juvenile holding cell—or worse, an adult arraignment—wondering how my eighteenth birthday turned into a life sentence.
“Emily Vance?”
A tall officer with salt-and-pepper hair and tired, lined eyes stood behind the high reception counter. His name tag read Detective Miller. He looked like a man who had seen every flavor of human betrayal and had grown numb to all of them.
“Yes,” I whispered, standing up so fast my knees wobbled.
“You said you have something involving financial fraud and an immediate threat to your person?” His tone wasn’t unkind, but it was professional, devoid of the warmth I had spent my whole life begging for.
“My name is Emily,” I said, my voice finally finding its footing, ringing clear and sharp in the echoing room. “And I need to report my family for identity theft, elder fraud, and an active conspiracy to frame me for a federal crime.”
Miller paused, his pen hovering over a logbook. He looked me up and down—my oversized hoodie, my worn sneakers, the trembling shadow in my eyes—and then his expression hardened into absolute focus.
“Step back into Interview Room B,” he said, gesturing down a sterile hallway. “And don't open that backpack until I tell you to.”
The heavy metal door clicked shut behind us. The room smelled of old coffee and industrial disinfectant. I set the backpack down on the metal table, unzipped the main compartment, and pulled out the silver laptop.
May you like
“Walk me through it,” Miller said, pulling out a recording device and snapping it onto the table. “From the very beginning.”
I took a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of fear, and pressed play on the audio file in my phone before sliding the screen across the table.
