Chapter 327

TIMOTHY POV

In the cold, stark interrogation room, Timothy sat with clenched fists beneath the table, his resolve tested by the accusing glares of the two officers towering over him. Desperation gnawed at him, urging him to withstand their abuse and accusations as he yearned to reach Evie.

"Where were you on the night of the murder?" one officer demanded, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

"I already told you," Timothy replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I was walking home. Her father dropped me off there without a way to get back."

The officer's eyes narrowed, skepticism evident in his gaze. "And how do we know you're not lying? How do we know you didn't plant the gun?"

"I didn't give the gun to Mia," Timothy insisted, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "It was mine, but I don't know how it ended up with her."

The officers exchanged a knowing glance, their suspicion palpable. "Convenient," one of them remarked, his tone laced with accusation. "You conveniently 'don't know' how the gun ended up in Mia's possession."

Gritting his teeth, Timothy fought to keep his composure. "It's the truth. I didn't plan any of this."

The officers leaned in closer, their scrutiny unwavering. "And what about your brother, Andy? What role does he play in all of this?"

Timothy's heart skipped a beat at the mention of Andy's name. "Andy had nothing to do with it," he insisted, desperation creeping into his voice. "He gave me the gun, but he didn't know why I had it."

The officers remained skeptical, their suspicion deepening. "So your brother just happened to give you a gun, and then it ends up in Mia's hands?" one of them questioned incredulously.

"It's not like that," Timothy protested, his voice tinged with desperation. "Andy didn't know about Mia or the murder. He wouldn't have been involved."

The officers pulled out a smartphone, their expressions cryptic as they played a recorded conversation between Evie and Andy. Timothy listened in horror as Andy confessed his confusion about Stella's death.

"That's not what it sounds like," Timothy stammered, his mind reeling with disbelief. "Andy loved Stella. He didn't kill her."

The officers exchanged a glance, their satisfaction evident. "Looks like we've got ourselves a real family affair," one of them remarked, his voice dripping with disdain. "You, your brother, and your girlfriend, all involved in these murders."

Tears stung Timothy's eyes as the weight of their accusations bore down on him. "You're wrong," he whispered hoarsely. "None of us had anything to do with those murders. You're making a mistake."

But the officers remained unmoved, their resolve unshaken by his protests. As they continued their interrogation, hurling accusations and abuse, Timothy knew that he would have to withstand their relentless onslaught, no matter the cost.

Amidst the suffocating silence, a distant memory clawed its way to the surface of Timothy's mind, a flashback to a time long gone, yet hauntingly familiar.

Timothy and Andy were just kids then, their laughter ringing through the air as they played in the backyard of their childhood home. But as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the lawn, their innocent games took a darker turn.

Andy, always the mischievous one, had gotten into trouble yet again, his antics resulting in a broken window and a shattered vase. As their parents stormed into the room, their anger palpable, Timothy knew that he would bear the brunt of Andy's transgressions, as he always did.

"I did it," Timothy blurted out before Andy could protest, his voice trembling with fear and resignation.

Their parents exchanged a knowing glance, their disappointment etched into their furrowed brows. However, much later, his mother had come into his room and sat down with him, looking forlorn.

"Timothy, why must you always take the blame for your brother?" his mother sighed, her tone heavy with reproach.

But Timothy said nothing, his gaze fixed on the ground as he bore the weight of his brother's sins like a cross around his neck. His father would never hear it if Timothy defended himself.

The memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Timothy reeling in its wake. It was a painful reminder of the role he had always played in his family, the scapegoat to Andy's misdeeds.

As his lawyer's relentless questioning continued, Timothy couldn't shake the feeling that he was once again being made to pay for his brother's sins. His heart ached with the injustice of it all, the burden of his past weighing heavily on his shoulders.

The interrogation room felt like a pressure cooker, its walls closing in on Timothy as he sat, his nerves fraying with each passing moment. Across from him, the two officers bore down on him with accusing stares, their words laced with skepticism and suspicion.

"Andy is as innocent as I am," Timothy muttered, his voice strained but resolute. "He had nothing to do with any of this."

The officers exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. "And how do you know that for sure?" one of them questioned, his tone sharp with doubt.

"Because I do," Timothy replied, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "My brother was always squeamish about this kind of stuff. If he was going to do anything like this, he’d use that money of his and hire somebody."

As the officers began to question how Andy could have been involved, the door swung open, and Timothy's lawyer and father entered the room, their presence commanding attention.

"Clear out, gentlemen," Timothy's lawyer barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "We'll take it from here."

The officers exchanged a begrudging glance before reluctantly filing out of the room, leaving Timothy alone with his lawyer. Soon enough, another figure emerged in the form of his father.

Before Timothy could utter a word, his lawyer unleashed a torrent of anger, his frustration evident in every word. "I can only do so much to clear your name," he snapped, his eyes flashing with intensity. "But if you keep getting into trouble like this, you'll leave me with nothing to work with."

With a heavy sigh, Timothy's father took a seat beside him, his expression grave. "Timothy, we need to talk," he began, his voice tinged with disappointment.

Timothy braced himself for what was to come, knowing that his father's disappointment cut deeper than any accusation from the officers.

His lawyer wasted no time diving into the interrogation, his questions relentless and unforgiving. Every detail of Timothy's recent and past activities was scrutinized, every action viewed as potential leverage against him.

"I hate to say this, son," the lawyer continued, his skepticism evident in every word, "But you may need to confess."

Timothy's heart sank as his worst fears were realized. "I can't," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "I didn't do it."

But his lawyer's expression remained unmoved, his tone unyielding. "If you don't confess now," he warned, his voice laced with menace, "you're looking at a 25-year sentence. Is that what you want?"

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, suffocating Timothy as he struggled to comprehend the gravity of his situation. He knew that confessing would mean betraying everything he believed in, everything he stood for. But the thought of spending the next 25 years behind bars was a fate worse than death.

With a heavy heart, Timothy bowed his head, his resolve crumbling beneath the weight of his lawyer's ultimatum. "I guess I have no choice," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the din of his own despair.

And as the words left his lips, Timothy knew that he had sacrificed more than just his innocence. He had sacrificed his soul.