Chapter 5 - Ethan’s Interrogation and the Secret Bank Account
Inside Room 3 of the Lake Geneva Police Department holding facility, the fluorescent lights buzzed with an irritating, clinical hum.
Ethan Caldwell sat at the stainless-steel interrogation table. He had been stripped of his tuxedo jacket and silk tie; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves were rolled up. His wrists were still cuffed to a metal loop bolted to the center of the table.
Across from him sat Detective Miller, a seasoned investigator with tired eyes and a low, gravelly voice, flanked by a younger detective holding a digital recorder.
“Let’s go over it one more time, Mr. Caldwell,” Detective Miller said, leaning back in his metal chair and tapping a printed bank ledger against the table. “You’ve spent the last two years playing the grieving best friend, embedding yourself in the Bennett family, and planning a multi-thousand-dollar wedding with the widow of the man whose death you supposedly mourned.”
Ethan stared at the tabletop, his jaw clenched tight. He hadn't said a word for twenty minutes.
“And yet,” Miller continued, sliding the financial printout across the steel surface so it stopped right under Ethan’s nose, “you managed to funnel four hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars of corporate and personal funds to a former construction assistant named Sarah Jenkins. Care to explain what kind of consulting services Ms. Jenkins was providing you from an offshore account?”
Ethan’s eyes flicked down to the paper. A muscle twitched near his left eye, betraying the calm, collected facade he was desperately trying to maintain.
“It was an investment partnership,” Ethan finally spoke, his voice raspy. “Real estate ventures. Private equity.”
“Real estate ventures?” Miller scoffed, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Funny. When we ran a background check on Ms. Jenkins this morning, we found out she’s been living out of her car in Kenosha for the past six months, working odd jobs at convenience stores. Real estate moguls usually don't crash on friend's couches while blackmailing guys who wear five-thousand-dollar tuxedos.”
Ethan stiffened. “I’m invoking my right to counsel. I want my attorney present before I answer any more questions.”
“Your attorney is currently stuck in traffic on I-94,” Miller said smoothly, standing up and grabbing his coffee mug. “Which gives us plenty of time to review the audio recording we recovered from the security cameras outside the Whitestone Estate’s service entrance yesterday afternoon.”
Ethan’s head snapped up. “What audio recording?”
Miller paused at the door, turning back with a cold, knowing smirk.
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“The one where a woman matching Sarah Jenkins’s description cornered you by the catering vans at 2:00 p.m., screaming that fifty thousand dollars wasn't enough to buy her silence anymore—especially since you were stupid enough to get married at an estate overlooking the lake where everyone could see her.”
The blood drained entirely from Ethan’s face. The cool, arrogant mastermind vanished, leaving behind a cornered animal realizing the trap had finally snapped shut.
