Chapter 4 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the Charleston Police Department headquarters was a classic study in psychological claustrophobia. The walls were painted a dull, institutional gray. A heavy steel table bolted to the floor sat beneath a buzzing fluorescent light fixture that flickered every few seconds. A massive two-way mirror occupied the entire length of the far wall, reflecting the bleakness of the space.
I sat on the other side of that glass, inside the observation suite, watching through the tinted pane.
My face was still heavily bandaged, a grid of sterile pink burn-dressings covering my left cheek, jaw, and neck. Every time I turned my head, a dull, throbbing ache reminded me of what my sister had tried to do. Beside me stood Dr. Patel, who had driven down from the hospital to check my dressings, and Detective Thorne, who crossed his arms as he watched the monitor.
On the other side of the glass, Emily sat slumped in a metal chair.
She had been forced to change out of her silk pajamas into standard county holding facility scrubs—a coarse, oversized orange jumpsuit that swallowed her frame and made her pale, tear-streaked face look even more ghostly. Her designer wedding ring had been confiscated during booking, leaving a stark, pale band of unblemished skin around her left ring finger.
A tape recorder sat in the center of the metal table, its red light blinking steadily.
Detective Miller sat opposite Emily, her expression a mask of professional neutrality. She slid a manila folder across the table, opening it to reveal a glossy photograph of the chemical analysis report, alongside a high-resolution close-up of my scarred neck taken in the emergency room.
"Let’s go over this one more time, Mrs. Carter," Miller’s voice echoed clearly through the wall speakers in the observation room. "According to the statements provided by three independent catering staff members, two bridesmaids, and your cousin Rachel, you specifically instructed the bar back to leave a separate, unmarked decanter of dark red liquid on the secondary service tray behind the dessert bar, claiming it was a 'special vintage' for a family toast."
Emily kept her eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum floor. Her shoulders shook with erratic, jagged tremors.
"I didn't mean to hurt her," Emily whispered. Her voice was barely audible, stripped of all its theatrical arrogance, sounding small and pathetic.
"That’s not what the evidence suggests, Mrs. Carter," Miller replied smoothly. "Pouring sodium hydroxide into a drinking glass and handing it to someone with the explicit intent of throwing it in their face is the definition of premeditated assault with a deadly weapon. If that chemical had splashed into her eyes instead of her cheek, your sister would be permanently blind right now."
"She deserved it!" Emily suddenly snapped, her head whipping up. Her bloodshot eyes flashed with a dangerous, unstable manic energy. She slammed her cuffed hands against the metal table, rattling the recorder. "You don't understand! She always takes everything! She took my parents' praise, she took the spotlight at every family dinner, she acted like a saint while I was trying to find myself!"
"So you decided to dissolve her skin?" Miller asked, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp interrogation cadence.
"I wanted to scare her!" Emily shrieked, tears finally bursting over her lower lids and carving tracks through her makeup-free face. "I wanted her to know what it feels like to be ugly! I wanted her to look in the mirror every single day of her life and remember that she isn't untouchable! I just wanted to ruin her face for a few weeks! I didn't think it would burn that badly! The guy at the hardware store said it was just a heavy-duty cleaner!"
Inside the observation room, Dr. Patel let out a sharp, disgusted breath.
I didn't flinch. I kept my eyes locked on the monitor, watching the woman who had shared a childhood bedroom with me, the girl I had helped dress for school dances, the sister whose wedding dress I had practically altered with my own hands.
There was no remorse in her eyes. Only self-pity. She wasn't crying because she had nearly blinded me; she was crying because her life had been interrupted.
"The hardware store," Detective Thorne muttered beside me, shaking his head. "She bought industrial drain cleaner from Home Depot two days before the wedding, mixed it with red wine to mask the viscosity and color, and stored it in a bridal suite mini-fridge."
"She planned it," I said, my voice cold and steady. "From the very beginning."
On the screen, Detective Miller reached across the table, picked up a single sheet of paper from the manila folder, and slid it toward Emily.
"Sign the confession statement, Mrs. Carter," Miller instructed calmly. "It won't wipe away the felony charges, but cooperating with the prosecution is the only variable between a twenty-year sentence and a slightly more lenient plea arrangement."
Emily stared at the paper as if it were a venomous snake.
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For a long, agonizing minute, the room fell completely silent except for the rhythmic hum-click of the ceiling fluorescent light. Then, slowly, with hands that shook so violently she could barely hold the ballpoint pen, my sister leaned forward, pressed the tip of the pen to the paper, and scrawled her signature at the bottom of the page.
Her fairy tale was over. The crown had turned to ash.
