I picked up the pen and signed.

As I pressed my thumb to the ink pad, Detective Mercer dropped his voice.

"Kid, if you've got evidence, get it out now. Every eye in the city is on you."

I wiped the red ink off my finger.

"Thanks for the tip. Let the bullet fly a while longer."

I was taken to the detention center.

Seven or eight women in yellow vests sat inside the cell, every head turning toward me at once.

A heavyset woman near the wall corner stood up.

"Fresh meat? What're you in for?"

I ignored her.

She walked over and kicked the edge of my bunk.

"Gone deaf? I asked you a question!"

I looked up at her.

"Stay away from me if you don't want to die."

The woman burst out laughing.

"Ha! Scrawny little thing talks tough. Girls—time to educate her."

Several women closed in around me.

Just then, a guard rapped on the iron door from outside.

"Number 093, Laurel Fox. Attorney visit."

The heavyset woman glared at me, then slunk back to her corner.

I stood and followed the guard to the visitation room.

My lawyer was already waiting. Ernest Henson.

He'd been a senior when I was in college. Now he was the top criminal defense attorney in the city.

"Laurel, it's bad out there."

"What did Nelson do now?"

Ernest opened the case file in his hands.

"He gave a live media interview outside the police precinct this morning."

"He's doubling down—says you're a criminal syndicate leader. And he threw out something new."

I watched the gravity settle deeper into Ernest's face.

"Tell me."

Ernest took a long breath.

"He brought up the girl who killed herself—jumped off the building. Gail Lambert."

"He says you forced her to pour drinks at the karaoke lounge, that she was—"

"That she couldn't live with the shame."

My hand clenched hard. Gail Lambert.

The girl who always kept her head down, who spoke so softly you had to lean in to hear her.

"Does he have evidence?" My voice was ice.

Ernest nodded.

"He produced a photocopy of a diary Gail supposedly kept before she died."

"One entry reads: 'Laurel Fox is a monster. She forces me to drink. I'm so scared of her.'"

A cold laugh left my throat.

"Public opinion online has completely spiraled." Ernest pressed his fingers against his brow.

"They've tagged you 'the deadliest beauty in the class.' They're demanding the death penalty."

I looked at him, my tone flat.

"Ernest, I need you to do two things."

"Name them."

I spoke slowly, making every word land.

"Submit that photo Nelson filed, the one of me holding the knife, for forensic authentication."

Ernest wrote fast.

"Then go to the bakery in the alley behind the college district. Ask the owner for the custom cake receipt from October 12th, ten years ago."

"That knife in the photo was the plastic cake knife that came free with a three-layer Black Forest cake."

Ernest frowned.

"What about the Gail Lambert accusation? That diary is devastating."

"Don't respond to the Gail Lambert claim. Not yet."

Ernest held my gaze for a long moment.

"All right. I'll get on it. Watch yourself in here. Nelson's put the word out—he wants you wishing you were dead inside this place."

I turned and walked back to the cell.

The second I stepped through the door, the air was wrong.

Every woman who'd been sitting on her bunk was now standing, their bodies packed together to block the surveillance camera.

Marlene Coyle walked toward me with a smile.

"Laurel Fox, right? Somebody outside put up a hundred thousand for one of your legs."

The words barely left her mouth before two women lunged at me from either side, locking my arms tight.

Marlene drove the sharpened toothbrush handle straight at my thigh.

I snapped my knee up and caught her square on the wrist.

Her bones cracked like a dry branch and she shrieked, the shiv clattering to the floor.

I twisted, threw the woman on my left over my shoulder, and slammed her into the concrete.

The one on my right let go and stumbled back, hands up.

I rubbed the red marks on my wrists and walked over to Marlene.

"A hundred grand? Nelson Whitney really is cheap."

She was rolling on the floor, cradling her wrist and howling.

The guard heard the noise and came running, nightstick banging against the iron door.

"What the hell is going on? You starting a riot?"

Marlene got her complaint in first.

"Officer! She attacked me! She broke my hand!"

The guard gave me one cold look.

"093. Three days in solitary."

I held out both hands without a word and let them cuff me.

The solitary cell had no windows—just a single yellowed bulb overhead and less than thirty square feet for everything: eating, sleeping, pissing, breathing. Three full days. I didn't speak to a single person.

On the fourth day, they let me out.

That same afternoon, Detective Mercer called me in for questioning again.

His face was grim. He had a fresh stack of printed-out screenshots in his hand.

"Laurel Fox, take a look at what's happening out there!"

He slapped the printouts down on the table.

"They've torn your life wide open—name, address, everything. Your parents' restaurant got trashed. Your old company already put out a statement saying you're fired."

"The entire internet is calling for the maximum sentence!"

I looked down at the screenshots.

Red paint splashed across a shopfront. Abuse scrawled so thick the words bled together. And my parents—in a hospital emergency room, looking old and utterly helpless.

My chest clenched like a fist had closed around it, so tight I couldn't draw breath.

"Officer, public opinion doesn't replace the law." My voice was raw.

Detective Mercer shot to his feet.

"Laurel Fox! What are you hiding?"

"You want to just sit there while those people hound your parents into the ground?"

I took a long breath.

"Officer, have the results of my forensic authentication request come back?"

He paused, then pulled a document from his folder.

"They have."

"The Ministry of Public Security's forensic evidence center confirmed the photo was fabricated."

"The knife in the original image was a plastic cake knife."

His eyes locked onto mine.

"But that only proves the photo is fake. What about the video? What about Gail Lambert's diary?"

"What about the testimony from all thirty-five of them?"

I opened my eyes and met his gaze, steady and cold.

"The photo was faked. So tell me—why couldn't the video be?"

"Officer, I want to see Nelson Whitney."

Detective Mercer frowned.

"What for? Trying to get your stories straight?"

"No. A confrontation."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"I want him to admit, to your face, that he's been lying."

He hesitated, then finally nodded.

"Fine. I'll arrange the confrontation. But I'm warning you, don't try anything."

Half an hour later, Nelson Whitney was brought into the interrogation room.

Same slouch. Same smirk. Like he'd strolled in off a beach.

"Oh, Laurel. Only been a few days and look at you—what happened, sweetheart?"

He dropped into the chair across from me.

"Heard you've been living the good life in here. Say the word, I'll send someone else to spice things up."

Detective Mercer slammed his palm on the table.

"Nelson Whitney! Watch your mouth!"

Nelson sneered, but he eased off—barely.

"Officer, I'm just checking in on an old classmate."

I held Nelson's gaze and let the silence stretch before I spoke.

"Nelson. The photo analysis came back. It's a forgery."

Nelson's eyes flickered.

"So what if it's forged? I was terrified back then—I just grabbed some random photo to cover myself."

"But the video is real. And Gail Lambert's diary is real."

"There's nowhere left to hide."

I leaned forward and lowered my voice.

"Can't I?"

"Do you remember where you were the night Gail jumped, ten years ago?"