Chapter 2 - The Theatre of Deception
The interview room was a monument to psychological warfare. Four bare walls painted an institutional shade of mint green, a single one-way mirror stretching across the northern partition, and a bolted-down aluminum table surrounded by two uncomfortable metal chairs.
Detective Marcus Vance sat on the opposite side of the table. He was a veteran of the Chicago Police Department with twenty years on the force, silver-dusted hair, a tailored suit that cost twice my monthly rent, and the smooth, predatory charm of a street-level hustler wearing a gold badge.
"Ethan. Sit down, son," Marcus said, gesturing to the empty chair with a sympathetic sigh. He slid a manila folder toward the center of the table, tapping it with a manicured finger. "I wish we were meeting under better circumstances."
I didn't rush. I pulled out the metal chair, sat down, and laced my fingers together over the table, keeping my posture straight and my eyes locked directly onto his.
"What's this about, Marcus?" I asked, my voice smooth, quiet, and completely devoid of the terrified tremor he was expecting.
Marcus blinked, momentarily thrown off by my composure. Last time, I had been sweating through my collar within ten seconds. He quickly recovered, flashing a paternal, sorrowful smile that made my stomach churn.
"It's about Arthur Henderson," Marcus said softly, opening the manila folder. He pulled out an 8x10 glossy crime scene photograph and slid it across the table. "He was found dead in his study early yesterday morning. Blunt force trauma to the skull. Robbery gone wrong."
I looked down at the photograph. Even though I had seen it in my nightmares a thousand times, my face remained a mask of unreadable stone.
"That's terrible," I said evenly. "Arthur was a good man. But what does that have to do with me? I designed the blueprints for his historical home renovation, sure, but our contract ended a month ago."
"Did it?" Marcus leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Because our crime scene techs pulled latent fingerprints off the murder weapon—a custom titanium pry bar used to force open his back patio door. And those prints didn't match Arthur's. They matched yours, Ethan. Point for point, ridge for ridge."
In my previous life, this was the moment my heart had stopped. I had stammered about how my tools were kept in a shared locker at the job site, how anyone could have grabbed them.
This time, I let out a low, dry chuckle.
Marcus frowned, his professional mask slipping just a fraction. "You find something funny about a homicide investigation, Ethan?"
"I find it fascinating, Marcus," I replied, leaning back in my chair and crossing one leg over the other, "that a titanium crowbar—a specialized, matte-finish industrial tool engraved with my firm's laser serial number EV-709—just happened to be discovered by you, in a dark crawlspace, exactly twelve hours after Julian Cross filed an emergency buyout clause on our architectural partnership."
The color in Marcus’s face didn't drain entirely, but his eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous spark of genuine alarm.
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"What are you implying, Ethan?" Marcus hissed, his voice dropping its paternal warmth and turning hard as iron.
"I'm not implying anything yet, Detective," I smiled, a cold, predatory expression that made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm just pointing out that you might want to check the chain of custody logs before you present that crowbar to a judge. Because my prints might be on that tool... but they aren't the only ones."
