Chapter 2 - The Precinct
Monday morning smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee at the downtown police precinct. I sat across from Detective Miller, a seasoned financial crimes investigator who looked like he had seen every variation of human greed. On his desk sat my comprehensive dossier: sixty pages of timestamps, IP routing logs, medical photographs of my second-degree facial burn, and the attempted $6,850 fraudulent charge originating from my father's laptop.
"You realize that if we move forward with this, we’re looking at felony wire fraud, identity theft, and assault with a weapon—the boiling tea," Miller said, leaning back and tapping his pen against the folder. "These aren't strangers, Miss Vance. Once I hand this to the district attorney, you can't just drop the charges at Thanksgiving."
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"I don't plan on attending Thanksgiving, Detective," I replied, my voice steady. The pain in my cheek was sharp, a physical reminder of what happened the moment I said no to them. "They used a family dinner to assault me and distract me while they attempted to authorize a seven-thousand-dollar charge on a digital wallet they set up using stolen credentials. I want to press full charges."
Miller studied my face for a long moment before nodding. "Most victims walk in here trying to protect their relatives from the consequences. You've handed us a prosecution wrapped with a bow." He signed the bottom of the intake form and stamped it with a bold, red case number. As I walked out of the precinct into the crisp morning air, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. The law didn't care about family obligations or bridal stress. It only cared about the evidence.
