Chapter 3 - The Hospital Corridor
The waiting room of the metropolitan hospital smelled aggressively of industrial disinfectant and stale black coffee. I sat on the edge of the stiff vinyl chair, still wearing the deep red velvet gown, though I had draped a borrowed woolen blanket over my shoulders to hide the dust and microscopic glass shards clinging to the fabric. Across the narrow corridor, two police officers spoke in low murmurs with a hospital administrator, occasionally glancing over in my direction with polite, disbelieving scrutiny.
Marcus had stayed behind at the estate to speak with the lead investigators, leaving me to ride in the back of the ambulance alone with the haunting sound of Person B's ragged breathing. Now, hours later, the medical staff remained tight-lipped about her condition. The doctors had rushed her straight into emergency surgery, and the uncertainty hung in the sterile air like a physical weight.
My fingers traced the edge of the blanket. Every detail of the dining room kept replaying behind my eyelids: the blinding flash of the chandelier, the sudden terrifying weight of Person B falling backward against the glass table, and that tiny, glowing red light on the ceiling dome recording every syllable of our confrontation.
Detective Vance walked down the hallway, his badge glinting beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. He was a middle-aged man with sharp gray eyes and an air of quiet persistence that unnerved me far more than an aggressive interrogation ever could. He pulled up a chair directly opposite mine, sitting down without asking permission.
"Your husband mentioned you were shaken up," Detective Vance said, opening a small leather-bound notebook. "He gave a preliminary statement at the scene. But I'd like to hear what happened from your perspective, step by step, starting from the moment she arrived at the house."
I swallowed hard, feeling the dry rasp in my throat. I kept my gaze fixed on the detective's badge, reciting the rehearsed sequence of events with careful precision. "She wasn't invited. She came through the side garden doors while Marcus was upstairs. She was shouting about... personal matters. When I tried to escort her out, she lunged at me. We struggled near the dining table, and she lost her footing."
Vance nodded slowly, his pen poised motionless over the paper. "And the security system? The patrol officer who checked the perimeter noted that the interior dome camera was active when they arrived."
"I don't know anything about the cameras," I lied, keeping my voice steady through sheer willpower. "Marcus handles the smart-home controls."
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Before Vance could press further, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor swung open, and Marcus strode into the waiting area. His black tuxedo jacket was discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, giving him an aura of exhausted authority. He stepped directly between the detective and me, placing a heavy, possessive hand on the back of my chair.
"Detective Vance," Marcus said smoothly, cutting off any further questions. "My wife has been through a severe trauma tonight. If you have further inquiries, your department can direct them through our legal counsel in the morning."
