Chapter 11
The police station was smaller than I'd expected. It sat on a quiet street downtown, a squat brick building with small windows and an American flag hanging limply in the still morning air. My mother parked in the visitor lot and turned off the engine, but neither of us moved.
"Are you ready?" she asked quietly.
No. "Yes."
We walked in together. The lobby smelled like stale coffee and industrial cleaner. A bored receptionist looked up from her desk.
"Ileh Park," I said. "I have an appointment with Detective James."
She checked her computer. "Have a seat. He'll be out shortly."
The waiting area had uncomfortable plastic chairs and outdated magazines. My mother sat beside me, her purse clutched in her lap, radiating anxiety. I could feel her wanting to ask questions, to demand answers, to protect me the way she always had.
But how could she protect me from this?
"Ileh Park?"
Detective James stood in the doorway, looking exactly as he had at school, cheap suit, tired eyes, but something sharper underneath. "Thank you for coming. Mrs. Park, if you'll follow me."
We were led down a narrow hallway with fluorescent lights that hummed overhead. The walls were beige and institutional, covered with safety posters and police department commendations. We passed several closed doors before Detective James stopped at one marked "Interview Room 2."
Inside was a small room with a metal table bolted to the floor, three chairs, and a camera mounted in the corner. My stomach dropped.
"Please, have a seat." Detective James gestured to the chairs on one side of the table. "Can I get either of you some water? Coffee?"
"Water would be good," my mother said. Her voice was higher than usual, nervous.
"Nothing for me," I said. Keep your wits sharp.
He left and returned a moment later with a bottle of water, then sat across from us. He pulled out a folder, thick with papers, and set it on the table between us. My entire body went cold at the sight of it.
"Before we begin," he said, "I want to make sure you both understand that Ileh is not under arrest. She's free to leave at any time. However, this interview is being recorded." He gestured to the camera. "For everyone's protection. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said.
My mother nodded, unscrewing the water bottle with shaking hands.
Detective James opened the folder and pulled out a photo. Chance, smiling, alive, at what looked like a school event. He placed it facing us.
"Chance Williams. Seventeen years old. Found dead in her home on September fourteenth of this year." He looked at me. "You knew her well?"
"We used to be close. When we were younger."
"When did you stop being close?"
"Gradually. Over the past year or so. We just grew apart." I kept my voice steady, factual.
"But you were at her house in March for her birthday."
"Yes."
"What was your relationship like then?"
"Fine. Friendly, but not like it used to be. We were..." I chose my words carefully. "Moving in different directions."
He made a note. "Did you see her after March?"
"At school, in passing. But we didn't really talk."
"And on September fourteenth, the day she died, where were you?"
Here it was. The question everything hinged on.
"I left my house around two PM. Took the bus to Riverside University, I'd been accepted there with a scholarship and wanted to see the campus on my own. Walked around for about an hour. Got coffee at a place near campus. Then walked through Riverside Park and caught the bus back downtown, got to the library around six-thirty for a study group."
"That's quite a journey. Why not just take the direct route to the library?"
"I had a free afternoon. I wanted to see the campus, clear my head. Midterms were stressing me out."
He pulled out a piece of paper, a bus schedule with handwritten notes. "The 47 bus from Riverside stops near Chance's house. In fact, CCTV shows someone matching your description boarding at the stop directly across from her house at 5:47 PM. In the rain."
My mother's head snapped toward me. I could feel her stare, but I kept my eyes on Detective James.
"That was me," I said. "I walked through Riverside Park, it borders that neighborhood. I must have come out near that stop."
"In a rainstorm?"
"It started while I was walking. I got caught in it."
He pulled out another document, cell tower records, from the looks of it. "Your phone pinged off a tower near Chance's house at 5:32 PM that day. That's approximately fifteen minutes before you boarded the bus."
"Like I said, I was walking through the park. The boundaries must overlap."
"Did you see Chance that day, Ileh?"
The question hung in the air. My mother's hand found mine under the table, squeezing hard.
"No."
"You didn't stop by her house?"
"No."
"Even though you were in the neighborhood? Even though you were former best friends? You didn't think to knock on her door, say hello?"
"We weren't that close anymore, Detective."
He leaned back, studying me. "A neighbor reported seeing someone matching your description, height, build, dark jacket, running from Chance's house around 5:30 that day. Running, not walking. Like they were in a hurry. Or scared."
"That wasn't me."
"The same neighbor also saw you and Chance arguing outside her house three weeks prior to her death. An argument she described as 'intense' and 'heated.' What was that about?"
My mother's grip on my hand tightened painfully. I could feel her confusion, her growing fear.
"We had a disagreement about college plans. It wasn't a big deal."
"What kind of disagreement?"
"Personal. Friend stuff."
"Were you angry with her?"
"No. Just frustrated. But we resolved it."
Detective James pulled out another paper, an email printout. My heart stopped as I recognized the format.
"This is from Sarah Martinez, whose mother sits on the Whitmore Scholarship selection committee. Chance emailed Sarah three weeks before her death asking about reporting suspected plagiarism. She specifically mentioned concerns about the scholarship winner..." He looked up at me. "...who she described as a 'close friend.' That's you, isn't it?"
The room felt suddenly airless.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about."
"Did Chance accuse you of plagiarism, Ileh?"
"No."
"Did she threaten to report you?"
"No."
"Did you steal her essay to win the Whitmore Scholarship?"
"Ileh?" My mother's voice was barely a whisper. "What is he talking about?"
I pulled my hand from hers. "I wrote my own essay, Detective. Whatever Chance was concerned about, maybe she was confused, or maybe she was talking about someone else."
"I don't think she was confused." He opened the folder wider, revealing more papers. "We requested the scholarship submissions. Your essay and Chance's essay, the one she wrote but didn't submit, they're remarkably similar. Different enough to avoid automatic plagiarism detection, but the structure, the arguments, even several key phrases... they're nearly identical."
The walls were closing in.
"I'd like a lawyer," I said quietly.
Detective James sat back. "That's your right. But I want you to understand something, Ileh. Right now, I'm trying to understand what happened. Trying to see if this was an accident, a fight that went too far, a moment of panic. If you cooperate, if you help me understand..."
"I'd like a lawyer," I repeated, louder this time.
He nodded slowly and closed the folder. "Interview terminated at 10:47 AM. Ileh Park has requested legal representation."
He stood up. "You're free to go. For now. But Ileh?" He looked down at me. "This doesn't go away just because you lawyer up. The evidence is building. Every day, I find something new. The truth always comes out eventually."
"Then you'll find out I had nothing to do with this."
"I hope you're right." He opened the door. "For your sake."
My mother and I walked out in silence. The hallway felt longer now, stretching endlessly. She didn't speak until we were back in the car, doors closed, alone.
"Tell me the truth," she said, her voice shaking. "Did you steal that essay?"
I looked at her, at the woman who'd worked two jobs to give me a chance, who'd sacrificed everything for my education, who'd believed in me when no one else did.
And I lied to her face.
"No, Mom. I wrote my own essay. I don't know why Chance would say otherwise, but I swear to you, I earned that scholarship."
She wanted to believe me. I could see it in her eyes, the desperate need to trust her daughter.
But I could also see the first seeds of doubt.
She started the car without another word.
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I looked back at the police station and saw Detective James standing at the window, watching us leave.
He knew.
The question was: could he prove it?