Chapter 3 - Blood on the Table
The interrogation room smelled like stale coffee and floor wax. Marcus sat handcuffed to the metal table.
He assumed this was about his father’s old corporate tax evasion. He prepared his lawyer's number in his head.
The heavy metal door swung open. Two detectives walked in. Neither carried financial ledgers.
"Where were you two hours ago, Marcus?" the older detective asked, slamming a file down.
Marcus frowned. "Eating dinner. Why?"
The detective flipped the file open. An 8x10 glossy crime scene photo stared back at him. A man face-down in a cheap motel room in a pool of blood.
"A private investigator. Hired under your name."
Marcus leaned forward, the chain rattling. "I didn't hire anyone."
The detective slid a bank statement across the table. The payment was highlighted in neon yellow. It came from the offshore account. The one only Marcus and Eleanor had access to.
"Someone paid him fifty grand to dig into a thirty-year-old fire," the detective said. "And then someone cut his throat."
The detective smirked. He reached into a brown paper evidence bag and dropped something onto the table.
Marcus stopped breathing.
May you like
It was the crumpled, used t-shirt he had thrown at Austin during dinner. It was completely saturated in fresh, sticky blood.
