Deceit

CHAPTER 6: POLICE STATEMENT

9am came with sirens.

Not for me. Not yet.

But the sound made my stomach drop anyway.

“Mrs. Blackwell?” Two officers at the door. Male and female.

Professional. No smiles.

“We need you to come down to the station. Regarding the Blackwell warehouse fire, 10 years ago.”

Kain was already there. In a suit. Arms crossed.

“No,” he said. “She gives her statement here. With me. And with our lawyer.”

The female officer looked at him. “Mr. Blackwell, this is standard procedure.”

“And this is my wife,” Kain said. “And she’s not going anywhere without counsel.”

I looked at him. Our lawyer.

Wife.

An hour later, my living room was a crime scene.

Not literally. But it felt like it.

Lawyer. Two officers. Me. Kain.

Recorder on the table.

“Mrs. Monroe-Blackwell,” the male officer started. “Can you tell us about your parents?”

I took a breath. “David and Grace Monroe. They were business partners with Blackwell Group.

They died in a fire at the warehouse on March 14th, 10 years ago.”

“And you believe it was arson?”

“I believe it was murder,” I said. Voice steady. “Covered up as an accident.”

Kain didn’t look at me. But his hand brushed mine under the table.

Rule 3, broken. Just for a second.

The officer turned to him. “Mr. Blackwell. You were 17. You gave a statement in 2016.

It said you saw your father arguing with the Monroes.”

Kain nodded. “That’s correct.”

“And you didn’t report it?”

“I was a child,” Kain said. Ice in his voice. “And my father threatened to disown me.

I reported it to internal security 3 years later. They buried it.”

They buried it.

Just like he said.

The female officer wrote something down. “We’re reopening the case.

We’ll need access to Blackwell Corp files. And we’ll need to speak to Ms. Tasha Monroe.”

“Tasha’s in rehab,” I said quickly. “She’s getting help.”

“She can give a statement from there,” the officer said.

When they left, the house felt empty again.

Kain exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath.

“You did good,” he said.

“I told the truth,” I said. “It’s all I have.”

He walked to the window. “The press will eat this up.

‘Blackwell case reopened. Billionaire implicated.’”

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“Terrified,” he said honestly. “Not for me. For you.”

He turned. “Once they dig, they’ll dig into you too. Your finances. Your past.

They’ll call you a gold digger again. Worse.”

“Let them,” I said. “I’m done hiding.”

Kain studied me. “You’re stronger than I was at your age.”

“I had to be,” I said. “No one was coming to save me.”

Silence.

Then: “I’m coming now.”

By 2pm, the news was everywhere.

POLICE REOPEN BLACKWELL COLD CASE

KAIN BLACKWELL COOPERATING WITH INVESTIGATION

WIFE OF VICTIMS’ DAUGHTER GIVES STATEMENT

My phone was a war zone.

Reporters. Bloggers. Random people.

“You deserve justice”

“You’re just in it for the money”

“Kain is a criminal too”

I threw my phone across the room.

Kain caught it before it hit the wall.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Breathe.”

“I’m trying,” I whispered. “But it feels like everyone owns me.”

“They don’t,” he said. “I don’t. You own you.”

He handed me the phone. “Turn it off. For today.”

I did.

We ended up in the kitchen. Again.

He was making tea. I was watching him.

This man who ran a 40-floor company,

making chamomile like he’d done it his whole life.

“My mom used to make this,” I said. “When I had nightmares.”

Kain paused. “What were the nightmares about?”

“Being alone,” I said. “Guess that came true.”

He set the mug in front of me. “Not anymore.”

We drank in silence.

It was comfortable.

“Kain,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Why didn’t you run? When I signed the contract.

You could’ve picked anyone. Why me?”

He set his mug down. “Because when I saw you, you weren’t begging.

You were breaking. And there’s a difference.”

He looked at me. “Begging people want to be saved.

Broken people want to save themselves. I recognized it.”

I recognized it.

“Did you ever think about turning your dad in?” I asked.

“Every day,” he said. “But I was 17. And scared.

And he told me if I did, I’d be killing the company.

Killing 10,000 jobs. Killing my mother’s legacy.”

He laughed bitterly. “So I chose the company. I chose wrong.”

“You were a kid,” I said.

“I was old enough to know better,” he said. “That’s why I’m doing this now.

Because I can’t fix then. But I can fix now.”

At 6pm, Tasha called from rehab.

Video call.

She looked awful. And better.

Pale. No makeup. But clear eyes.

“Aisha,” she said. Crying. “I’m so sorry.”

“Tasha,” I said.

“I lied to the police before,” she said. “I told them it was an accident.

Dad paid me to say that. Blackwell’s lawyers paid me.”

She wiped her face. “I’m telling the truth now. I gave a statement today.”

My chest hurt. “Why now?”

“Because you’re not hiding anymore,” she said. “So I don’t have to either.

And because I’m tired of being Daniel’s puppet.”

“Kain’s helping me,” I said. “With the foundation. With everything.”

Tasha nodded. “I know. I saw. He looks at you different.”

She paused. “Don’t make my mistakes, sis. Don’t choose the wrong man.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m choosing me. And if he’s part of that, then...”

“Then good,” Tasha said. “For real. Be happy.”

We cried together. On video. 300 miles apart.

When we hung up, I felt lighter.

Kain was in the doorway. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think I am.”

At 10pm, another email.

From the police.

`“We’ve found new evidence. We’d like Mr. Blackwell to come in tomorrow.

For formal questioning.”`

Kain read it over my shoulder.

“Formal questioning,” he repeated. “That’s cop talk for ‘we think you did it.’”

“Did you?” I asked. Quiet.

“No,” he said. “But my father did. And I helped hide it.

In some states, that’s accessory after the fact.”

Jail.

The word hung in the air.

“Will you go?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Because running would make me my father.”

I nodded. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“Aisha—”

“I’m coming,” I said firmer. “Contract or no contract.

You don’t face this alone.”

Kain looked at me. Really looked.

And for the first time, he reached out and took my hand.

No cameras. No rules.

Just his hand in mine.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Together.”

We didn’t sleep.

At 3am, we were in his study.

Going through files. Old emails. Anything that could help.

At 4am, he fell asleep in the chair.

Head tilted back. Exhausted.

I covered him with a blanket.

Watched him for a long time.

This man who carried guilt for 10 years.

Who chose to tell the truth.

Who chose me.

At 7am, he woke up.

Found me asleep on the couch next to him.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” I mumbled.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

I took it. “Ready.”

The car ride to the station was quiet.

No music. No talking.

Just our hands.

At the doors, reporters. Flashes.

“MR. BLACKWELL, DID YOU KNOW?”

“MRS. BLACKWELL, DO YOU FORGIVE HIM?”

Kain squeezed my hand. “Head up.”

Inside, a detective waited.

“Mr. Blackwell. Mrs. Blackwell. This way.”

Interrogation room. Cold. Grey.

Recorder on.

“Mr. Blackwell, where were you on March 14th, 10 years ago?”

“At the warehouse,” Kain said. “With my father.”

“And did you see anything?”

“I saw my father argue with David and Grace Monroe.

I saw him threaten them. I left. Later, there was a fire.”

“And you didn’t call the police?”

“No,” Kain said. “I should have. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

The detective looked at me. “Mrs. Blackwell. Do you believe Mr. Blackwell was involved?”

I looked at Kain. Tired. Honest. Broken.

Trying.

“No,” I said. “I believe he was 17 and scared.

And I believe he’s spending every day now trying to make it right.”

The detective nodded. “We’ll be in touch.”

Outside, the sun was out.

For the first time in days.

Kain stopped on the steps. Looked at the sky.

Then at me.

“I thought I’d feel worse,” he said.

“You told the truth,” I said. “That’s why.”

He pulled me into a hug.

Quick. Tight. Then let go.

Rule 3, shattered.

“Thank you,” he whispered in my ear. “For standing with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered back.

His phone buzzed.

Email from the board.

“We stand with you, Mr. Blackwell. Full support.”

Another from the foundation lawyer.

“The Monroe Foundation is officially registered.”

And one more. Unknown number.

“This isn’t over. I have more. -D”

Daniel.

Again.

Kain deleted it. “Let him try.”

We got in the car.

No contract between us now.

Just two people.

With a past.

And maybe... a future.