Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
Before the public arraignment, Detective Miller granted me ten minutes.
It wasn't standard procedure, but when a victim is also the state’s primary actuarial witness who has just handed the prosecution a ninety-page forensic audit outlining three separate federal financial crimes, certain courtesies are extended.
I stood behind the two-way mirror of Interrogation Room B at the county precinct. On the other side of the glass sat Fallon.
She didn't look like an influencer anymore.
Her designer wedding gown had been confiscated for evidence, replaced by a dull, oversized orange jumpsuit made of cheap polyester. Her hair, unwashed and stripped of its extensions, hung in limp, greasy strands around her pale, un-contoured face. Without her studio lighting, without the softening filters of an iPhone screen, she looked small, hollow, and terrified.
Beside her sat a public defender whose exhausted expression suggested he was already contemplating a career change.
The door to the interrogation room opened, and Detective Miller walked in. He tossed a manila folder onto the metal table between them.
"Your husband just took a deal, Fallon," Miller said flatly, pulling out a chair.
Fallon jerked her head up, her eyes wild. "What? No. Evan wouldn't do that. Evan loves me. We did this for our future!"
"Evan just signed a full sworn deposition stating that the entire plan was your idea," Miller lied smoothly. In reality, Evan had tried to cut a deal, but the DA had refused to offer him anything less than twenty-five years. Still, the psychological effect was devastating. "He said you were furious that Sloan refused to give you more money from the trust. He said you bought the TCA online and forced him to mix it."
"That’s a lie!" Fallon screamed, slamming her cuffed hands against the table. The metallic clatter echoed sharply against the cinderblock walls. "He bought it! He mixed it in the hotel bathroom using rubber gloves! He told me it would only burn for a second! He told me it was just an acid that models use to peel their dead skin!"
"You knew it was eighty percent," Miller said, leaning forward. "We have the search history from your iPad, Fallon. Three days before the wedding: *'Can trichloroacetic acid cause blindness?'* and *'How long does third degree chemical burn take to heal?'*"
Fallon’s breath hitched. She looked down at the table, her chest heaving in short, jagged gasps.
"She always had everything," Fallon whispered, her voice dropping into a venomous, snarl that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Sloan was the smart one. Sloan was the responsible one. Dad left her the voting shares in the estate. He left me nothing but an allowance! I had to build my own life out of thin air! I had to smile for strangers every single day just to pay my rent!"
"Your sister paid your rent for three years, Fallon," Miller said.
"She looked down on me!" Fallon shrieked, tears finally cutting messy, gray tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "Every time she wrote a check, she looked at me like I was a stray dog! I wanted her to feel what it was like to be ugly! I wanted her to see what happens when you don't have your pretty, clean, perfect little life anymore!"
Behind the glass, Greer reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were warm and solid.
I didn't flinch. I didn't look away. I watched Fallon unravel until there was nothing left of the glamorous bride, nothing left of the internet darling, nothing left but an insecure, narcissistic shell who had traded her soul for algorithmic validation.
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"She’s not looking down on you now, Fallon," Miller said quietly, rising from his chair. He walked toward the door, paused, and looked back at her. "She’s not looking at you at all. She’s already moved on."
***
