Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in Room 604
Within eight minutes, the sixth floor of the Alabaster was sealed off completely.
Paramedics had rushed Tristan out through the service elevator, his pulse barely detectable, while six broad-shouldered men in dark suits—Corbin’s private security detail—stationed themselves at every exit door.
Carlton, the floor manager, was trembling in the corner of the staff pantry, sweating through his tuxedo collar, frantically trying to explain to police officers that the kitchen’s prep lines were strictly audited.
Paige sat inside Room 604—a private executive holding suite adjacent to the dining hall.
The room was cold, lit only by a single brass lamp sitting on a heavy oak desk.
The door opened, and Corbin Valleti walked in.
He removed his black suit jacket, folding it neatly over the back of a chair, before sitting down directly across from Paige. He didn't look angry; he looked terrifyingly focused.
"Your name is Paige Lawson," Corbin said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that filled the quiet room. "Twenty-seven years old. Four years at this establishment. Nursing student. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars in medical debt following your mother’s death."
Paige didn't flinch. She kept her hands folded in her lap, though her raw knuckles were white.
"You know a lot about me, Mr. Valleti," Paige replied quietly.
"I make it my business to know everything about the people who stand near my family," Corbin said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His dark hair caught the light, highlighting the faint scar running through his left eyebrow.
"My brother is currently in intensive care at St. Jude's with acute organ failure caused by a synthetic neurotoxin," Corbin continued, his gaze fixing onto her like a vise. "The doctors say that if he had consumed the entire plate, he would be dead."
"The plate served to Tristan was marked with the letter L."
"That plate was pre-ordered for my mother, Paige."
Corbin reached into his pocket, setting a sleek, black digital recording device on the desk between them.
"You carried that tray from the cold station," Corbin said, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous threat. "Tell me why you gave my brother a plate meant for my mother, or you will leave this room in federal handcuffs."
Paige looked at the recording device, then directly into Corbin’s dark, lethal eyes.
She realized in that moment that keeping quiet would protect a killer and send her to prison for a crime she had tried to prevent.
"I didn't try to kill your brother, Mr. Valleti," Paige said, her voice rising steady and clear.
"I swapped the plates."
Corbin’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Why?"
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"Because three minutes before I served that table," Paige revealed, leaning closer, "I stood behind the frosted glass door."
"And I watched your brother’s wife, Monica, open her gold clutch, take out a powder, and sprinkle it over your mother's panna cotta."
