Chapter 16
The call came on a Wednesday morning, three weeks after the first interview.
I was in AP Calculus, half-listening to Mr. Rodriguez explain derivatives, when the office assistant appeared at the door with a note. Mr. Rodriguez read it, frowned, and gestured to me.
"Ileh, you're needed in the main office."
Every head in the classroom turned to stare. I gathered my things with shaking hands and followed the assistant down the hall.
Patricia was waiting in the conference room next to the principal's office. Her expression was grim.
"Detective James has requested a second interview," she said without preamble. "Tomorrow at two PM. I've already cleared it with your mother, she'll meet us there."
"What does he want?"
"He didn't specify. But Ileh..." She pulled out a document. "...the medical examiner's report was finalized. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the back of the head, consistent with a fall onto a hard surface. Time of death between 3:00 and 5:00 PM."
"I already knew that."
"Yes, but there's more. They found evidence of a struggle, bruising on Chance's arms consistent with being grabbed or restrained. Defensive wounds on her hands." Patricia's eyes were sharp. "This wasn't just a fall, Ileh. Someone pushed her. And whoever did it grabbed her first."
The room tilted.
"They also processed the crime scene more thoroughly. Found traces of mud near the back door, mud that matches the composition of soil from Riverside Park. The park you claimed to walk through that day."
"Lots of people walk through that park."
"They're going to ask you about the struggle. About the bruises. About why someone would grab Chance hard enough to leave marks." She paused. "And I need to know, before we walk into that room tomorrow, is there anything you need to tell me? Anything that changes the story?"
This was it. The moment where I could come clean to my lawyer, get ahead of it, prepare a proper defense. Maybe argue self-defense, or accident, or diminished capacity.
Or I could stick to my story. Deny everything. Make them prove it.
"There's nothing to tell," I said. "I wasn't there."
Patricia stared at me for a long moment. "All right. Then here's what we're going to do tomorrow. We walk in, we listen to what Detective James has to say. You answer only the questions I approve. If he pushes too hard, if he accuses you directly, we terminate the interview. Understood?"
"Yes."
"And Ileh?" Her voice dropped. "If you're lying to me, if there's something you're hiding, this is your last chance to tell me before we're in that room. Because once we're there, once you're on record, there's no taking it back."
I met her eyes. "I understand."
She nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced, but bound by professional obligation to defend me regardless.
"Two PM tomorrow. Don't be late."
Chapter 17
That night, I couldn't eat.
My mother made dinner, pasta with marinara, my childhood favorite, but I pushed it around my plate until she finally told me to just go upstairs.
I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios.
They had the medical examiner's report. They had evidence of a struggle. They had the mud traces. They were building a case, piece by piece, and tomorrow they'd lay it all out to see if I'd crack.
I pulled out my phone and opened my encrypted notes. Updated them with the new information:
New Evidence:
ME report: blunt force trauma, defensive wounds, bruising on arms
Struggle confirmed, not accidental fall
Mud traces match Riverside Park
Timeline still 3-5 PM
Tomorrow's Interview Focus:
The struggle/defensive woundsPhysical evidence placing me at sceneContradictions in my timelineMotive (essay theft)
Strategy:
Deny being there
Suggest alternative explanations for all evidence
Request lawyer intervention if pressed
DO NOT ADMIT TO ANYTHING
I closed the app and deleted my browser history out of habit, even though I'd been using private mode.
My mother's footsteps paused outside my door but didn't knock. I heard her walk away, heard her bedroom door close, heard the muffled sound of crying.
She knew. On some level, she had to know. But she was choosing to believe me anyway, because the alternative, that her daughter was a killer, was too horrible to accept.
The guilt was becoming unbearable.
I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow, and for the first time since Chance died, I let myself cry. Not for her, though maybe I should have. But for myself. For the person I used to be, before desperation turned me into someone who could steal and lie and let someone die and cover it up.
For the future I'd destroyed in those forty-five seconds on Chance's marble floor.
When the tears finally stopped, I pulled out my laptop one more time. I needed to prepare. Needed to be ready for tomorrow.
I pulled up everything I could find about police interrogation techniques, about how to spot leading questions, about what to say and what not to say. Studied like I was cramming for the most important test of my life.
Because in a way, I was.
At 2 AM, I finally closed my laptop and forced myself to sleep. Tomorrow, I would walk into that interview room. Tomorrow, Detective James would lay out his case. Tomorrow, I would either survive or I won't.
Chapter 17.5
The police station looked exactly the same as it had three weeks ago. Same bland exterior, same American flag, same parking lot where my mother now pulled in with shaking hands.
Patricia was already waiting inside, her briefcase open on her lap, papers spread across the seat beside her.
"Remember," she said as we approached. "You speak only when I indicate it's safe. You volunteer nothing. If at any point I feel they're overstepping, I will terminate the interview. Clear?"
"Clear," I said.
My mother squeezed my hand. "It's going to be okay."
But her voice wavered, and we both knew she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
Detective James met us in the lobby. He looked more tired than before, deeper circles under his eyes, his tie slightly askew. But his eyes were sharp, alert, focused entirely on me.
"Thank you all for coming," he said. "Let's go ahead and get started."
We followed him down that same beige hallway to the same interview room. The camera in the corner blinked its red light. The metal table gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
This time, there was a second person in the room, a woman in her forties with short gray hair and a badge clipped to her belt.
"This is Detective Sarah Reeves," James said. "She'll be assisting with the interview today."
Patricia's jaw tightened slightly. Two detectives meant they were taking this seriously.
We all sat. James pulled out his folder, even thicker than before, and set it on the table.
"For the record," he said, "this is the second interview with Ileh Park regarding the death of Chance Williams on September fourteenth. Present are Ileh Park, her mother Jennifer Park, and her attorney Patricia Chen. Also present is Detective Sarah Reeves." He checked his watch. "Interview beginning at 2:03 PM."
He opened the folder and pulled out the medical examiner's report.
"Ileh, I want to walk through some new findings with you. The medical examiner has determined that Chance Williams died from blunt force trauma to the back of her head, consistent with falling backward onto a marble surface. However..." He paused, letting the word hang. "...there were also significant defensive wounds. Bruising on both her arms, here and here," He pointed to photos I couldn't look at. "Consistent with being grabbed forcefully. Abrasions on her palms consistent with pushing against someone or something."
He looked at me. "This wasn't an accidental fall, Ileh. Someone grabbed her. Someone struggled with her. Someone pushed her hard enough that she fell backward and hit her head."
Patricia put a hand on my arm. A warning.
"We also found trace evidence at the scene," Detective Reeves added. "Mud near the back door. Forensic analysis shows it contains soil composition, organic matter, and mineral content consistent with Riverside Park." She slid another document across the table. "The same park you claim to have walked through that day."
I kept my expression neutral, curious. As if this was all new information. As if I hadn't spent three weeks obsessing over every detail.
"I don't understand what this has to do with me," I said carefully.
"Don't you?" James pulled out another photo, a map with highlighted areas. "Let's walk through your timeline again. You say you left home around 2 PM, took the bus to Riverside University, walked around campus, then walked through Riverside Park before catching the 47 bus at 5:47 PM. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And you arrived at the library at 6:30 PM."
"Approximately, yes."
Detective Reeves leaned forward. "That's four and a half hours, Ileh. For what should have been, at most, a two-hour trip. Where were you during those missing two and a half hours?"
"I walked around. I sat on a bench. I got coffee. I wasn't watching the clock."
"Where did you get coffee?" James asked.
I hesitated. I'd never specified this detail. "There's a café near the Riverside campus. I don't remember the name."
"We checked every café within a mile of Riverside University," Reeves said. "Showed your photo. No one remembers seeing you that day."
"It was two months ago. Why would they remember one customer?"
"Because you're memorable, Ileh." James pulled out another document. "Honor student. Whitmore Scholar. Your face was in the local paper. And yet, no one at Riverside, not at the admissions office, not at any café, not a single person, remembers seeing you that day."
Patricia put a hand on the table. "Detective, are you accusing my client of lying?"
"I'm trying to understand why her story doesn't match the evidence." He turned back to me. "The mud we found at Chance's house, it's from Riverside Park. You admit you walked through Riverside Park that day."
"Lots of people walk through that park."
"But not lots of people were Chance's former best friend. Not lots of people were caught on camera boarding a bus directly across from her house, soaking wet, at 5:47 PM, just seventeen minutes after a neighbor saw someone running from that same house."
"That wasn't me running."
"The neighbor described someone your height, your build, wearing a dark rain jacket like the one you own." He pulled out a photo, security footage from the bus, grainy but clear enough. "This is you, isn't it?"
"Yes, but..."
"And you're soaking wet. Your hood is up. You're looking down, avoiding the camera. That's the behavior of someone who doesn't want to be identified."
"I was just trying to stay dry."
"The rain didn't start until after five that day, Ileh. If you were walking through the park since three-thirty like you claim, you would have been dry when you entered the park. So why were you soaking wet at 5:47?"
Patricia interjected. "My client has explained that she lost track of time. The weather changed. These are not inconsistencies, they're normal variations in memory."
"Are they?" James pulled out another photo. This one made my stomach drop. It was the coffee mug from Chance's kitchen, the one with my fingerprints. But beside it was another photo, this one showing the mug's placement on the counter, and in the background...
A calendar. Chance's calendar. And the date circled in red: September 14th.
"We found this in Chance's kitchen," James said. "A calendar where she'd marked your name. September 14th, 3:00 PM. 'Talk to Ileh.' She was expecting you that day, wasn't she?"
My throat went dry.
"I don't know anything about that."
"She texted you three days before she died." He pulled out phone records. "September 11th, 8:47 PM. 'We need to talk. Can you come over Monday?' You responded 'What about?' She replied, 'The essay. I'm giving you one more chance.' You never responded to that text."
Patricia's hand tightened on my arm. A warning to stay quiet.
"Did you go to her house that day, Ileh?" Detective Reeves asked, her voice softer than James's. Almost sympathetic. "Did you go to talk about the essay? About her threats to report you?"
"No."
"Because we understand," Reeves continued. "You were under enormous pressure. Your whole future depended on that scholarship. Your mother had sacrificed so much. And Chance was going to take it all away over something that, to you, probably didn't seem like that big of a deal. Just borrowing some ideas from a friend, right?"
"I didn't..."
"So you went to talk to her," Reeves pressed. "To try to work it out. To make her understand. But she wouldn't listen, would she? She was so stubborn, so sure she was right. And maybe things got heated. Maybe she said something that made you angry. Maybe she pushed you first..."
"Detective Reeves," Patricia said sharply. "You're leading the witness."
"I'm trying to understand what happened." Reeves looked at me. "Because here's what we know, Ileh. We know Chance texted you asking you to come over. We know her calendar shows she expected you at 3:00 PM. We know someone grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises. We know she fell backward and hit her head on marble. We know someone tracked mud from Riverside Park into her house. We know you were in that neighborhood at 5:30 PM. And we know you've been lying about your whereabouts."
"I haven't been lying..."
"Then where were you?" James's voice rose slightly. "Give us something, Ileh. Give us proof you were somewhere else. A receipt from that coffee shop. A photo from Riverside. A person who saw you. Anything."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. There was nothing. No proof. No alibi. Just lies built on top of lies.
"The defensive wounds," James continued, pulling out more photos. "Chance had bruises here," He pointed to her forearms. "Consistent with someone grabbing her from the front. And here," He pointed to her wrists. "like someone was trying to restrain her. The medical examiner believes there was a struggle lasting several minutes before the fall. Someone grabbed her. She tried to pull away. They grabbed her again. There was pushing, shoving. And then she fell."
He looked at me. "Were you defending yourself, Ileh? Did she attack you first? Because if this was self-defense, if you were protecting yourself, that changes everything."
It was a trap. A kindness trap. Give me an out, make me think confession would lead somewhere softer than it would.
"I wasn't there," I said. "I didn't touch her. I didn't see her that day."
"Then explain the mud," Reeves said. "Explain the calendar. Explain the text messages. Explain why you have no alibi, no proof, nothing to corroborate your story."
"I don't have to explain anything." My voice was steady now, cold. "You're trying to piece together circumstantial evidence to fit a narrative. But circumstantial evidence isn't proof. It's speculation."
James and Reeves exchanged a glance.
"We also spoke to your friend Mira," James said. "She confirmed you arrived at the library at 6:30, soaking wet, distressed. She said you seemed 'terrified.' Those were her words. Terrified. Why would you be terrified if you'd just been walking through a park?"
"I was stressed about midterms."
"She also said you'd been acting strangely ever since, jumpy, paranoid, avoiding people. Classic signs of guilt."
Patricia stood up. "Detective, unless you have specific questions rather than character speculation, I think we're done here."
"Sit down, Ms. Chen." James's voice was hard now. "We're not finished."
He pulled out one more document. A printout of an email.
"This is from the Riverside University Admissions Office. We contacted them about your acceptance. Told them about the plagiarism allegations." He slid it across the table. "They've put your admission on hold pending the outcome of this investigation. If you're charged with anything related to Chance's death, your acceptance will be revoked. And the scholarship committee has already opened their own investigation. Even if you're not charged criminally, you'll lose the scholarship."
My mother made a small, wounded sound.
"So here's where we are, Ileh." James leaned back. "Your future is gone. The scholarship is gone. Riverside is gone. Your mother's sacrifices, your years of hard work, everything you've built, it's all crumbling. And it's going to keep crumbling until you tell us the truth."
"The truth is I didn't kill her."
"But you were there." It wasn't a question anymore. "You were there, something happened, and she died. And every day you don't tell us what really happened, it gets worse for you. Because right now? Right now we're trying to understand. But if you make us build the case without your cooperation, if you force us to prove every single detail," He shook his head. ",there's no room for 'it was an accident' or 'she attacked me first' or 'I panicked.' There's only murder."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
"I want to go home," I said quietly.
Patricia nodded. "We're leaving. This interview is over."
"For now," James said. "But Ileh? We're going to prove you were there. We're going to prove you killed her. And when we do, when we have enough for an arrest warrant, there won't be another conversation like this. There won't be a chance to explain. There will just be handcuffs and a courtroom."
He closed his folder.
"Think about that. Think about whether you want to spend the rest of your life in prison because you were too proud or too scared to admit what happened. Think about your mother, about what this is doing to her. And when you're ready to tell the truth, you call me."
He stood up. "Interview terminated at 3:17 PM."
We walked out in silence. My mother was crying quietly, trying to hide it. Patricia was on her phone already, probably calling the scholarship committee or the university.
In the parking lot, Patricia turned to me.
"They're going to arrest you," she said bluntly. "Maybe not today, maybe not next week. But they're building toward it. And when they do, this gets exponentially harder to fight."
"What do I do?"
"You tell me the truth. Right now. In this parking lot. What really happened that day?"
My mother looked at me, mascara streaked down her cheeks, hope and fear warring in her eyes.
I could tell them. Could finally admit what happened. Could start building a real defense instead of a house of cards.
Or I could keep lying. Could keep fighting. Could hope they never found the final piece that would connect everything.
"I wasn't there," I said. "I didn't kill her. And I'm not going to say I did just because they're pressuring me."
Patricia stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head. "Then God help you, Ileh. Because I don't think I can."
She got in her car and drove away.
My mother and I sat in our car, not speaking, not moving, until the sun started to set and the parking lot lights flickered on.
Finally, she spoke.
"Did you do it?"
"No."
"Ileh. Look at me. Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn't hurt that girl."
I turned to face her. Met her eyes. And lied one more time.
"I didn't hurt her, Mom. I swear."
She searched my face, and I saw the moment she made her choice. Not to believe me because the evidence pointed that way. But to believe me because she needed to. Because the alternative was too devastating to accept.
"Okay," she whispered. "Okay. Then we'll fight this. Whatever it takes."
She started the car and we drove home.
But I knew, we both knew, that this was the beginning of the end.
The question wasn't if I'd be arrested anymore. It was when.