MARISSA'S INTERROGATION

Marissa POV

Six hours in a concrete room will break anyone.

I sat slumped in the metal chair, handcuffs digging still in my hands, staring at space still in denial . No more tears left. My body had wrung itself dry sometime around hour three, after they'd shown me the "evidence" for the fifth time and asked the same questions in different ways.

I was so exhausted , my limbs felt numb and my thoughts were in disarray. " Your body is in shock." the female detective had said earlier with something almost like sympathy.

My body. My pregnant body.

My hand twitched toward my stomach, then stopped. I couldn't keep drawing attention there. Couldn't let them know how vulnerable I was, how terrified I was for the tiny life growing inside me. Eight weeks. So early. So fragile. After everything I'd been through, after three miscarriages that had nearly destroyed me, I'd finally been pregnant again.

And now Chris was dead.

The thought should have brought fresh tears. Instead, I just felt empty like someone had scooped out my insides and left only a shell.

The door opened. Detective Morrison entered with a fresh cup of coffee, it smelt nice. He sat across from me, studying my face with those cop eyes that had seen everything.

"Mrs. Hale. Let's go over this one more time."

"I've told you everything." My voice came out hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "I don't know Von Castellano. I never had an affair. I was at my father's grave from eight to nine thirty. I came home to tell Chris about the baby and found your people already here."

"The cemetery footage..."

"Malfunctioned. Yes. Convenient." I lifted my eyes to his, too tired to be anything but blunt. "Doesn't that seem suspicious to you? That the one piece of evidence that could prove my innocence just happens to be corrupted?"

Something flickered across his face. "We're looking into it."

"Are you?" I leaned forward slightly, ignoring the way my vision swam. "Or are you so convinced I'm guilty that you're not actually investigating?"

He pulled out another folder. My heart sank. More "evidence." More manufactured proof of a life I'd never lived.

"Your husband was about to divorce you."

"No, he wasn't."

"We found draft papers in his office. Dated two weeks ago."

I stared at the documents he slid across the table. Legal letterhead. Chris's signature at the bottom. Irreconcilable differences. Division of assets heavily in his favor.

"That's not possible," I whispered. "We were trying for a baby. You don't try for a baby with someone you're planning to divorce."

"Unless the baby wasn't his."

"The baby IS his!" The words burst out with the last of my energy. "I've never been with anyone else! How many times do I have to say it?"

Morrison's partner, Detective Blake, spoke from the corner. "Your fingerprints were on the murder weapon, Mrs. Hale. The letter opener from your husband's desk. Can you explain how they got there if you weren't home?"

"I already told you before that I use that desk! I run my company from that office when I work from home!" My head was pounding now, a sick throbbing behind my eyes. "My fingerprints are probably on every surface in that house because I LIVE there!"

"Lived," Morrison corrected quietly. "Past tense."

The words hit harder than they should have. He was right. I'd never live in that house again. Even if by some miracle they believed me, I could never go back to the place where my husband had died. Where someone had murdered him and destroyed my entire life in one calculated move.

"Where is my uncle?" The question came out suddenly, desperately. "Richard Hale. He's my only family. Why hasn't he come to see me? Why hasn't he said anything?"

The detectives exchanged a glance.

"Can I see him? Please. I need to see him."

"That's not how this works."

Panic clawed through the numbness. "He's my family! He's all I have left! Why won't you let me see him?"

Because he thinks you're guilty, a voice whispered in my head. Because everyone thinks you're guilty.

I slumped back in the chair, defeated. Uncle Richard. My father's younger brother. The man who'd stepped up after Dad died, who'd helped me navigate the company, who'd been there through the grief and the loneliness.

He'd also always been... strange.

The thought crept in unbidden. I tried to push it away, but exhaustion had stripped my mental defenses. Uncle Richard with his too-long hugs, his hands on my shoulders that lingered just a fraction too long. The way he'd look at me sometimes when he thought I wasn't watching. Calculating. Hungry.

Stop it, I told myself. He's family. He's been nothing but supportive.

Except.

Except tonight, in the driveway, when they were arresting me for murder, he'd been standing in the shadows. Watching. Smiling.

No. I'd imagined it. I'd been hysterical, in shock, my mind playing tricks. Uncle Richard wouldn't... he couldn't...

Could he?

"Mrs. Hale?"

I jerked back to the present. Morrison was watching me with sharp eyes. "Where did you go just now?"

"Nowhere. I'm exhausted. I can't think straight." It was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole truth.

The door opened again. A uniformed officer leaned in. "Detective? Richard Hale is here. Says he needs to see his niece."

My heart leaped. "Yes! Please, let him in!"

Morrison studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Five minutes."

They left me alone in the interrogation room. I tried to sit up straighter, to look less broken, but my body wouldn't cooperate.

The door opened and Uncle Richard swept in like a avenging angel in a suit.

"Marissa. My God, what have they done to you?"

He looked perfect, as always. Silver hair immaculately styled, tailored clothing, expensive watch catching the fluorescent light. Concerned uncle, devastated by his niece's predicament.

"Uncle Richard." My voice cracked. "Chris...he is dead."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He sat across from me, reaching for my cuffed hands. His touch was warm. "This is a nightmare. An absolute nightmare."

"I didn't kill him. I swear to you, I didn't do this."

"Of course you didn't." He squeezed my hands, his grip just slightly too tight. "You're not capable of violence. Anyone who knows you would know that."

"Then why am I here? Why do they have all this evidence against me?"

His expression darkened. "Someone has set you up, clearly. Someone very clever, very thorough. The question is who would want to destroy you like this."

I wanted to say: you tell me. I wanted to ask: why were you smiling in the driveway? But exhaustion and desperate hope kept the words locked in my throat.

"I'm going to fix this," Uncle Richard said firmly. "I've already called the best criminal attorney in California. He'll be here first thing in the morning. And I'm posting bail the moment they set it."

"What if they don't give me bail?"

"They will. I'll make sure of it." His eyes bore into mine, intense and unwavering. "You're not alone, Marissa. I'm going to take care of everything."

Relief flooded through me, so powerful I almost sobbed. "Thank you. God, thank you."

"That's what family is for." He smiled, then added "Now, I need you to do something for me. Sign this."

He pulled papers from his briefcase. Power of attorney. Temporary control of Hale Industries "during this difficult time."

My hand froze halfway to the pen he offered.

"It's just a formality," he said smoothly. "So I can keep th

e company running while you're dealing with this legal mess. You trust me, don't you?"

"Did I?" The thought rang in my head.