Chapter 9 - The Confession of a Broken Man
By Friday afternoon, the net had tightened completely around the remaining members of Miriam’s inner circle.
The person who had slid the note under our motel door was identified within twelve hours: a disgraced former private investigator named Thomas Vance (no relation to the detective), who had been on Miriam’s payroll for over a decade, handling dirty tricks and intimidation campaigns against anyone who threatened the family’s public image.
Faced with federal conspiracy charges and an airtight case, the investigator broke during his initial interrogation and gave the Scottsdale Police Department something far more valuable than a confession:
He gave up Derek.
In Holding Room A of the federal detention center, Derek Richard sat hunched over a stainless-steel table, his expensive suit replaced by a coarse orange jumpsuit, his hair uncombed, his arrogant facade completely shattered.
I stood on the other side of the two-way observation mirror, watching alongside Detective Vance and the U.S. Attorney.
Through the audio monitor, we heard Derek’s court-appointed attorney whisper something to him. Derek shook his head violently, burying his face in his cuffed hands.
“I want to talk to Paige,” Derek’s voice mumbled through the speaker.
Detective Vance looked at me. “You don't have to go in there, Paige. He has nothing left to offer you.”
“No,” I said quietly, straightening my shoulders. “I want to go in.”
I stepped through the heavy steel door and sat down at the table directly across from my ex-husband.
Derek looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, hollow, and filled with a pathetic, desperate realization of what his mother’s world had cost him.
“Paige…” he rasped, his voice cracking. “Please. Tell them to go easy on me. Tell them I was just... I was just following my mother’s lead. She controlled everything. She owned the trusts, the houses, the bank accounts. If I didn't do what she wanted, she would have cut me off, too.”
I looked at him—not with anger, not with hatred, but with a profound, liberating pity.
“You watched your own mother burn our seven-year-old daughter’s fingers on a frying pan, Derek,” I said, my voice completely steady. “And instead of stopping her, you stood there and told me not to exaggerate.”
“I was weak,” he sobbed, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I was a coward.”
May you like
“Yes, you were,” I said, standing up from the table. “And for the rest of your life, in a federal prison cell, you’ll have plenty of time to remember that cowardice.”
I turned around, walked out of the room, and never looked back.
