The flashbulbs were like a series of small, violent explosions. They strobed against Isolde’s face, turning the backstage corridor into a flickering nightmare. Each click of a camera shutter felt like a nail being hammered into her coffin.
Reporters shouted questions, their voices a chaotic, meaningless roar. The police officers flanking her were a solid wall, moving her forward through the gauntlet. She saw the faces of the crew members—the grips, the sound techs, the makeup artists. The awe they once held for her, the pity, had curdled into something else. Cold, clear contempt.
They were looking at her as if she were a monster.
The heavy steel door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise. The sudden silence of the police car was more suffocating than the shouts. She was pressed against the cold vinyl of the back seat, her wrists bound by plastic cuffs that bit into her skin.
The shock began to fracture.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered, the words tasting like ash. “A misunderstanding.”
The officer in the passenger seat didn’t turn around.
“Lyra,” she breathed, the name a curse. “She did this. She lied. Caspian… he wouldn’t…”
The denial escalated into a frantic, whispered tirade. She accused them all. Lyra, the jealous ghost. Caspian, the traitorous fool. The world, for being so easily duped by a sad song and a pretty face.
Her rage dissolved into pathetic pleading. “Please, you have to listen to me. I’m ill. I’m dying.”
No one responded. The city lights smeared past the window, indifferent. The fight drained out of her, leaving a chilling, vacant hollow. The mask of the tragic heroine, so carefully constructed, had not just slipped. It had shattered, and there was nothing underneath.
The interrogation room was a sterile box of grey walls and fluorescent light. The air was cold. She sat at a metal table, the cuffs removed but the feeling of them still phantom-like on her wrists.
A detective with tired eyes entered and sat opposite her. He placed a thick file on the table between them. He didn’t say a word. He just slid it forward.
The cover page was simple. `The Reckoning`.
Isolde stared at it. Her hands trembled as she opened it. Inside were bank statements, wire transfers from `The Finch Foundation` to offshore accounts. There were sworn affidavits. And there, on top, was the signed confession from Maria, her caregiver.
The cold, irrefutable proof of her own web of lies.
The words blurred. The numbers swam. It was all there. Every lie, every transaction, every threat. Undeniable.
A sound started in her throat. A low, guttural noise that clawed its way out. It wasn’t a sob. It wasn’t a scream.
It was a laugh.
High, unhinged, and utterly broken. The sound filled the small, grey room, echoing off the walls as Isolde Finch finally, completely, came apart.
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