Chapter 48 (1)
Abigall
The cold steel of the handcuffs bli into my wrists as I sat alone in the barren interrogation room. The walls were a dull gray, and the fluorescent light overltead buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows that only intensified my growing sense of dread. My breath came in short, uneven pops, and I fought the rising tide of panic clawing at my chest. I felt like I was suffocating
This can’t be happening, I thought, over and over again. My pulse pounded in my ears as my mind spiraled to the worst places—what if no one believed me? What if I never saw the light of day again? What would happen to my baby?
“Stop it. Stop it right now,” I ordered myself, squeezing my eyes shut. The pressure behind them threatened to spill over as tears, but I held them back with a deep, shuddering breath. “This stress isn’t good for the baby.”
I shifted uncomfortably in the cold, metal chair, the cuffs making even the smallest adjustment of my arms feel awkward and restricted. The early lunch 1 had eaten earlier, which had been so satisfying just moments ago, now felt like a dead weight in my stomach. I pressed my trembling hands into my lap, trying to focus on anything that could anchor me.
“I didn’t kill her,” I reminded myself firmly, repeating it like a mantra. “I didn’t kill Marcy.”
It had to be a misunderstanding. The police must have made a mistake–a cruel, stupid mistake–but a mistake nonetheless. My breathing slowed, though my fingers continued to tap nervously against my knee in a frantic uneven rhythm that I couldn’t seem to stop.
Minutes felt like hours. The room’s chill seeped into my skin, and I wrapped my arms around myself as much as the cuffs would allow, willing the anxiety away. My stomach heaved uncomfortably, and for a fleeting moment, I regretted eating so much again.
Just as I thought I might not be able to bear another second of silence, the door swung open with a metallic creak making me flinch in my seat. A heavyset bald police officer stepped inside, his expression as stony and gloomy as his colleagues who had put me here. His uniform strained slightly at his shoulders, and he carried a worn manila folder in one hand.
“Mrs. Remington,” he greeted tersely, his voice low and devoid of any warmth.
my
I straightened in my chair, trying to maintain a picture of composure despite the cold sweat that was now dotting
forehead. “Good evening, Officer,” I replied, my voice steadier than I expected. I raised my cuffed hands, the metal clinking together as I gestured toward them. “Would you mind explaining what the meaning of this is? Why have I been carted here like a common criminal?”
The officer didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled out the chair across from me and lowered himself into it with a grunt. His movements were deliberate as he placed the folder on the table before him with an air of judgement.
He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and I felt a jolt of unease at the disdain I saw in them. “Mrs. Remington,” he said, his tone clipped, “do you know who this is?”
He opened the folder and slid a photograph across the table toward me.
My gaze dropped to the image, and my heart gave a painful lurch. It was Marcy. Her face was unmistakable, though younger and softer. Her wide smile and intelligent eyes made my stomach twist painfully with the memory of seeing her that morning alive.
I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, I know her. That’s Marry Weathers. She worked in my home briefly as a
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Chapter 48(1)
caregiver.” 1 hesitated, then added, “I’m shocked to hear that she’s dead.”
The officer leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression darkened, his lips pulling into a thin line. “Shocked, huh?” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “You must think you’re so smart.”
I blinked at him, the air rushing out of my lungs as his words sunk in. “Excuse me?” I said, my volte rising slightly.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and fixed me with a sterly glare. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mrs. Remington. You think you can waltz in here with your expensive clothes and polished act, pretending it’s enough to fool us?”
1 felt my blood boil at his tone, but I forced myself to remain calm. “Officer, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said as evenly as I could manage. “I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t kill Marcy Weathers.”
He let out a low, humorless laugh and shook his head. “We’ll see about that.”
I clenched my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palus as I fought to keep my temper in check. “Why would I kill her?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “I have no reason to harm Marcy. She worked for me, and she did her job well. I had no problem with her.”
The officer’s expression didn’t waver. He reached into the folder and pulled out another document, tapping it with a finger. “No problem, huh? Then explain why witnesses say you were the last person seen with her before her body was found.” He paused, glaring at me. “Marcy Weathers was found dead this afternoon,” he continued bluntly, his gaze never leaving mine. “And according to multiple witnesses, you were seen arguing with her just hours before her body was discovered.”
My heart plummeted. “That’s not true,” I managed, shaking my head. “I didn’t argue with her. We had a conversation, yes, but it wasn’t an argument.”
dead.”
I felt my stomach churn violently, and I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. “You’re twisting this,” I said. “I didn’t harm her in any way, much less kill her.” My mind raced, replaying every moment of my encounter with Marcy earlier that day. Yes, we’d had words, but it wasn’t a screaming match–not the way he made it sound. And yes, I’d left in a hurry, but that didn’t mean….
“Sure,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Just a friendly little chat that ended with her turning up
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Chapter 48 (7)
Chapter 48 (2)
Abigail
My jaw tightened as the officer continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “An eyewitness saw you. walking to your car rather quickly after leaving Marcy’s plate. What was the rush, Mrs. Remington? Guilty conscience?”
I could feel my
blood boiling beneath my skin, the heat rising to my cheeks despite the chill in the room. My first instinct was to shout my innocence, to defend myself against this absurd insinuation. But I stopped myself, taking a deep breath. Pleading wouldn’t get me anywhere. These officers had already decided I was guilty. My words would fall on deaf ears.
Instead, I leaned back in my chair, the handcuffs biting inte my wrists as I crossed my arms and glared at him. So, let me get this straight,” I said, my voice laced with mockery. “An argument between Marcy and me magically translates to me murdering her? That’s quite a leap, don’t you think? And if that’s all you’ve got, I’d suggest you uncuff me and let me go.”
The officer didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at me, his lips curling into a smirk that sent a chill down my spine. Then, without a word, he reached into the folder on the table and pulled out another photograph.
He slid it toward me, and the moment my eyes fell on it, the air was sucked from my lungs.
It was a knife. A slim long one, stained with blood so dark it almost looked black against the steel. The image was sharp, vivid, and utterly revolting. My stomach twisted violently again, and I felt bile rising in my throat.
The room seemed to tilt for a moment as I tore my gaze away, my hands trembling in my lap. I clenched them into fists, trying to steady myself. Not now. Not here. I could feel the officer’s eyes on me, practically savoring my reaction, and I cursed my body for betraying me.
I had always been squeamish at the sight of blood, but this was different. This wasn’t just a few drops. This was…
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe. But the nausea only worsened as the officer spoke, his voice laced with triumph. “Recognize this, Mrs. Remington?”
I didn’t answer, I couldn’t.
“Of course you do,” he said, leaning forward with an almost predatory smile. “That’s the knife you used to kill Marcy Weathers.”
I shook my head, my voice finally returning, though it was weak and unsteady. “No,” I whispered. “That’s not
true.”
His smile widened, his words sharp as a blade. “Oh, it’s true. That knife–Marcy’s knife, from her own kitchen- was used to stab her twelve times. Twelve. Times. She was left to bleed out on the floor while you walked out of there, got into your car, and went about your day like nothing happened.”
The world tilted again, and for a moment, I thought I might faint. My vision blurred at the edges, and I could feel my heart pounding erratically in my chest.
“I didn’t-“I started, but he cut me off, his voice rising
“And do you want to know the best part?” he sneered. “The only DNA we found on that knife was yours, and Marcy’s. You do the math.”
My breath hitched, and the walls seemed to close in around me. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing at t photograph again, my eyes drawn to the glint of the steel beneath the blood. Memories of that morning flooded
back
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Chapter 48 (2)
Of course my DNA was on that knife. It was the same knife Marcy had served with her pie, the ple I had insisted on cutting a slice of by myself, thinking that would make her feel at ease for the conversation I wanted to have with her. I could still remember how uncomfortable she had looked as I told her to sit down when I cut a thin slice of ple for myself.
That damned knife.
I had held it. Of course, my fingerprints would be on it. It would be weirder if they weren’t.
“You’re a special kind of sick, you know that?” the officer said, his voice cutting through my frantic thoughts.
I looked up at him, my face carefully neutral despite the toll Inside me.
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he sneered at me. “You killed that poor girl, and then you went out to eat, like it was just another day. No remorse. No hesitation. You’ll get what’s coming to you, Mrs. Remington. Mark my words.”
I wanted to scream, to throw the photograph back at him and demand he stop spewing lies. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. To him, I was already guilty.
The officer tilted his head at the picture of the knife. “Now, why don’t you start telling me the truth, Mrs. Remington?” he said coldly. “Because right now, the evidence isn’t exactly in your favor.”
Instead of scoffing like I wanted to, I forced myself to sit up straighter, meeting his gaze with as much steel as I could muster. “I want my lawyer,” I said finally, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. “I’m not saying another word until a Remington family lawyer gets here.”
The officer scoffed, pushing his chair back as he stood up. I figured you would say that,” he said, gathering his folder and the photographs. “But don’t think for a second that it will save you. You’re going down for this, Abigail Remington. One way or another.”
With that, he turned and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.
I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him see how much his words rattled me. The silence that followed was deafening. I sat there, my hands shaking so badly that the cuffs rattled against the table. It was a harsh, grating sound that only increased my sense of helplessness.
I wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out at the injustice of it all. But I couldn’t afford to break down. Not now. Not when I had so much at stake.
Clenching my fists, I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing myself to focus. I hadn’t killed Marcy. I knew that much. No matter what the evidence said, I knew the truth, and I would do whatever it took to prove it.
But as I sat there, cold and shaking, I couldn’t ignore the growing fear that the truth might not be enough.
