The Platonic Trap novel Chapter 62

She had prepared herself for the interrogation, meticulously plotting out her answers in advance.

What she hadn't expected was for Alistair to stay completely silent on the matter.

For her, this was a massive stroke of luck.

She was the "victim." The narrative was that Charles had discovered her close relationship with Alistair and hijacked her while she was simply watching a racing event.

The advantage of playing the "victim" was that even if there were holes in her story, people would be hesitant to judge her too harshly.

She just had to hope Charles kept his word and didn't flip his story.

*Knock, knock—*

A gentle tapping sounded at the door.

"Miss, I've laid out some fresh clothes on the bed for you. Feel free to try them on and see if they fit."

The maid's voice outside the door was deeply respectful and cautious.

"Thank you, I appreciate it."

"It's our pleasure."

With that, the maid quietly withdrew.

Celia noted that the staff at Alistair's estate were incredibly professional.

They had seen her looking like an absolute wreck, and they had seen her step out of Alistair's personal vehicle, yet their lips remained perfectly sealed.

Their etiquette was flawless, their boundaries impeccable.

Even the clothes they had bought for her...

Stepping out of the bathroom, Celia held the brand-new, tag-still-attached garments up against herself.

A perfect fit.

Once she was dressed, a maid knocked at the precise right moment. "Miss, allow me to help dry your hair."

"Alright."

Celia raised an eyebrow slightly.

—This didn't sound like trauma counseling.

It sounded more like an interrogation designed to trip her up.

Outwardly, she maintained her frightened, submissive act, taking a seat across from the woman and keeping her head bowed in silence.

"Ms. Stafford, there's no need to be nervous. I merely want to ask about a few specifics."

The woman smiled with manufactured warmth, her voice soft. "Ken just told me that you originally went to the Southside track today to watch a race."

"But you didn't expect Charles to track you down, force you into his car, and make you race with him. You struggled with him over the steering wheel, crashed into the guardrail, and plunged into the lake. Is that correct?"

Celia gave a very, very small nod.

The woman made a few checkmarks in her notepad, her glasses catching the cold light.

"However, according to our investigation, Ms. Stafford," the woman looked up at her, "there don't seem to be any of your fingerprints on the terrorist's steering wheel."