SubChapter 18
I was in Calculus when Principal Hendricks appeared at the door, her face grave. She didn't need to say anything. I already knew.
Detective James was waiting in the hallway with two uniformed officers. The hallway had gone silent, students frozen in doorways, teachers peering out of classrooms. Everyone watching as I was led away in handcuffs.
"Ileh Park, you're under arrest for the murder of Chance Williams. You have the right to remain silent..."
The words washed over me as we walked past rows of staring faces. I saw Mira near her locker, her hand covering her mouth. Mrs. Chen in the doorway of her classroom, tears in her eyes. Sarah Martinez looking vindicated, like she'd known all along.
My mother met us at the station. She was already crying.
The booking process was mechanical. Fingerprints. Photos. Personal belongings confiscated. The orange jumpsuit they gave me was too big, the fabric rough against my skin.
Patricia was there, but her expression was resigned. "They have enough for an arrest. The DA thinks they can get a conviction on circumstantial evidence alone. The mud, the timeline, the motive, it's enough."
"But I didn't..."
"It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do anymore, Ileh. It matters what they can prove. And right now, they think they can prove murder."
The bail hearing was set for the next day. Patricia warned me it would be high, murder charges, flight risk, strong evidence. My mother would have to put up the house.
"I can't let you do that," I said through the glass partition in the holding cell.
"You don't have a choice." Her voice was firm but her hands shook. "You're my daughter. That's all that matters."
But it wasn't all that mattered. We both knew that now.
SubChapter 19
The bail was set at $500,000.
My mother couldn't raise it. Even with the house, even with loans from family, even with everything she had, it wasn't enough.
I stayed in jail.
The cell was small. Gray walls, a metal toilet, a thin mattress on a metal bed frame. My cellmate was a woman named Rita who was in for drug possession. She barely spoke to me.
The days blurred together. Wake up at 6 AM. Breakfast in the common area. Return to cell. Lunch. Common time. Dinner. Lights out at 10 PM. Repeat.
Patricia visited twice a week. Each visit brought worse news.
"The scholarship committee revoked your award. Riverside rescinded your admission. They're demanding repayment of any funds already distributed."
"The prosecution found another witness. Someone who saw you near Chance's house at 4:30 PM, not 5:30. Changes the timeline."
"Your mother lost her second job. The stress... she's not doing well, Ileh."
"The DA is offering a plea deal. Manslaughter. Fifteen to twenty years. Patricia thinks we should consider it."
Fifteen to twenty years.
I would be nearly forty when I got out. My mother would be elderly. My entire life...gone.
SubChapter 20
The trial date was set for January.
Three months away. Three months in this cell, watching my life disintegrate through a series of legal documents and hushed conversations through plexiglass barriers.
Mira stopped visiting after the second week. She'd come twice, sitting uncomfortably on the other side of the glass, trying to reconcile the person she'd known with the person everyone said I was.
"I want to believe you," she said during her last visit. "But Ileh... all the evidence. The texts they found. The calendar. The mud. How do I believe you when everything points to..."
"Then don't." I was so tired. So tired of lying, of fighting, of watching people I loved look at me with doubt and fear. "If you can't believe me, just go."
She did.
My mother still came. Every visiting day, without fail. But each time she looked older, more worn down. The hope had drained from her eyes, replaced by something worse, resignation.
"We'll get through this," she said, but neither of us believed it anymore.
The other inmates treated me differently than the rest. Word had spread about what I was accused of, killing a friend to hide plagiarism. Even in jail, among drug dealers and thieves and violent offenders, I was considered something worse.
A liar. A fake. Someone who pretended to be good while being rotten underneath.
Rita, my cellmate, finally spoke to me on the third week.
"You actually do it?" she asked one night, her voice cutting through the darkness.
"Does it matter?"
"Nah. Not really. We're all here for something. Just curious if you got the balls to own it."
I didn't answer.