Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
The Ashford Town Hall administrative annex was a windowless brick building situated behind the fairgrounds. By the time I walked up the concrete steps, the storm clouds overhead had finally broken, sending heavy sheets of rain hammering against the metal roof.
Officer Alvarez pushed open the door to the small briefing room when she saw me approach.
“You holding up okay, Mrs. Ellis?” she asked, eyeing the fading red handprint on my cheek.
“I’ve survived cancer treatments and nine years of marriage to Wade, Officer. A slap doesn't rank very high on the scale,” I replied steadily. “Can I speak with him?”
Alvarez hesitated, then nodded toward the open door of the adjoining room. “He’s currently trying to tell Sergeant Miller that the ring belongs to his mother’s side of the family and that you’re suffering from a severe paranoid delusion. His mother is outside hyperventilating in the hallway.”
I stepped into the fluorescent-lit room.
Wade was sitting at a scarred metal table, his sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly disheveled. The arrogant, untouchable swagger he usually wore like cheap cologne had been replaced by a twitchy, defensive desperation. When the heavy metal door clicked shut behind me, he looked up sharply.
“Megan,” he breathed, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the linoleum. “Thank God. You need to tell these cops that this is all a terrible misunderstanding. Drop the charges, Megan! If I get a domestic assault and theft record, my career with Sloan Hospitality is finished—they’re looking at a multi-million dollar buyout!”
I walked slowly around the table, stopping three feet away from him. I didn't yell. I didn't raise my voice. I simply looked at him the way an entomologist might examine a particularly repulsive beetle pinned to a board.
“Your career with Sloan Hospitality is already over, Wade,” I said evenly. “I just spoke with Avery Sloan ten minutes ago.”
Wade’s face went completely grey. His jaw dropped, and for a terrifying second, he looked like he might actually vomit onto the floor.
“You... you spoke with her?” he whispered, his voice pitching upward into panic. “What did she say?”
“She told me about the Charlottesville dinner. She told me about the multi-million dollar merger pitch where you claimed to be the sole owner of Rose & Rye. And most importantly, she told me that you proposed to her twelve days ago using my grandmother’s diamond.”
“She’s lying!” Wade roared, slamming his fist onto the metal table so hard the staples rattled. “She’s a crazy client! She’s trying to sabotage our business!”
“Our business?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper. “Wade, let’s get one fundamental truth established right here in this miserable room. Rose & Rye Bakery was deeded to my mother in 1994 and transferred directly to my name in my twenties—three full years before I ever met your lying face at that downtown farmers' market.”
He sneered, his mask of desperation slipping back into bitter contempt. “Oh, right. Your precious little bakery. Good luck running a commercial storefront and paying sixteen employees once the divorce courts split our marital assets down the middle. Under state law, everything built during our marriage is fifty-fifty. I own half of Rose & Rye, Megan. Half the LLC, half the equipment, half the real estate!”
I smiled. It wasn't a warm smile; it was the cold, clinical grin of a woman who had spent the last six months working quietly with a forensic accountant while her husband played corporate Casanova.
“Marital assets, Wade? Let’s talk about marital assets.”
I reached into my canvas tote bag, pulled out a thick, tabbed dossier prepared by my legal team, and tossed it squarely onto the table in front of him.
“What’s this?” he muttered, eyeing the cover.
“That is a complete forensic audit of every single business account, credit line, and petty cash drawer at Rose & Rye dating back thirty-six months,” I said smoothly. “It turns out that when an operations manager systematically siphons four hundred and twenty thousand dollars of corporate revenue into secret offshore crypto wallets and high-risk personal stock portfolios to fund a lavish bachelor lifestyle and engagement rings for corporate mistresses, the legal definition of ‘marital asset sharing’ changes rather drastically.”
Wade stared at the cover of the file as if it were coated in anthrax. He reached out with trembling fingers, flipped open the first page, and saw a crystal-clear, notarized bank log tracking unauthorized wire transfers originating from our business tax account directly to a personal brokerage account registered under his driver’s license number.
“This... this is an invasion of privacy,” he stammered, backing away until his thighs hit the metal chair. “You hacked my accounts?”
“No, Wade. As the sole majority stakeholder and registered agent of Rose & Rye LLC, I legally requested a routine internal compliance audit,” I replied calmly. “And when my accountant discovered the missing funds last month, we didn't call the bank. We called the state economic crimes division.”
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The door behind me swung open. Sergeant Miller stepped into the room, holding a pair of heavy steel handcuffs.
“Wade Ellis,” the sergeant announced formally, “you are under arrest for grand larceny, embezzlement of corporate funds, wire fraud, and domestic battery. Turn around and place your hands behind your back.”
