Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
Three days later, the sterile white lights of the police precinct interrogation room hummed overhead.
Hannah and Noah were finally home from the hospital, resting safely under the watchful eye of Hannah’s brother, who had flown in immediately upon hearing the news. Hannah’s breathing was stable, and color had returned to her cheeks, though the emotional trauma of what had happened lingered like a heavy shadow over our home.
I sat across a metal table from Detective Marcus Vance, a seasoned investigator with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor. Between us lay a flash drive containing the raw cloud footage from the nursery camera, along with the medical report from the ER detailing Hannah’s acute oxygen deprivation and the tampered medication bottles recovered by forensics.
Detective Vance tapped a pen against the table, looking up at me. “Mr. Thomas, I’ve reviewed the footage. And I’ve spoken with the attending physician at Mercy General. If paramedics had arrived even three minutes later, your wife and your son would have suffered irreversible neurological damage or worse.”
“I know,” I said, my voice hollow. The rage had burned itself out days ago, replaced by a cold, heavy numbness.
“Your mother, Diane Thomas, was picked up by our deputies an hour ago at her country club,” Vance continued, opening a case file. “She’s currently in holding down the hall. She requested legal counsel, but she also insisted on making an initial statement to me without a lawyer present. She claimed it was all a misunderstanding—that she was just trying to ‘toughen up’ the household and teach your wife some discipline.”
I gripped the edge of the metal table. “She knew what she was doing. She looked right into the camera lens when she swapped the medication.”
“We have her on tape committing premeditated reckless endangerment of a minor and aggravated assault,” Vance said firmly. He closed the folder and stood up. “I’m bringing her in for formal arraignment this afternoon. Given the severity of the evidence, the District Attorney is charging her with two counts of attempted felony manslaughter and child abuse. She’s not going to walk away from this, Ethan.”
Ten minutes later, I was led into the observation booth behind a one-way mirror.
Through the glass, I saw my mother sitting at the metal table in a gray holding jumpsuit. Her hair, usually impeccably styled, was slightly out of place. But there was no remorse on her face—only a hardened, stubborn glare of wounded pride.
The door to the interrogation room opened, and Detective Vance walked in, sitting down across from her.
“Mrs. Thomas,” Vance said evenly. “Let’s talk about what happened last Thursday afternoon at your son’s house.”
Through the soundproof speaker, my mother’s voice came through crisp and clear. “I demand to know why I am being detained like a common criminal! I was only trying to help my son! That woman—that incompetent wife of his—was turning my grandson into a fragile invalid!”
“By unplugging a life-support and monitoring device?” Vance challenged, sliding a still photograph from the nursery camera across the table. It showed her face illuminated by the nursery light as she pulled the plug. “And by swapping your daughter-in-law’s prescribed cardiac and respiratory medication with saline?”
Diane scoffed, crossing her arms. “It was tough love. Children today are too soft. Mothers today are too weak. I did what needed to be done to restore order in that house. Ethan knows I only wanted the best for our family.”
In the observation booth, I closed my eyes. The delusion was absolute. She truly believed her need for control, her hatred of inconvenience, superseded human life.
“Well, Mrs. Thomas,” Detective Vance said, his voice dropping into a cold, lethal register as he pulled out the formal arrest warrant. “The court doesn't view attempted suffocation as ‘tough love.’ You are being formally charged with two counts of felony attempted manslaughter, reckless endangerment, and tampering with prescription medication.”
For the first time, color drained from my mother’s face. The arrogant sneer vanished, replaced by sudden, panicked realization. “No... no, you can't do this. My son won't let you! Ethan! Ethan, where are you?!”
She stared directly at the one-way mirror—right at the spot where she instinctively knew I was standing.
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I didn't flinch. I didn't turn away.
I stood up from my chair, turned my back on the glass, and walked out of the observation room.
