Glover looks at me, her mouth tight, but not quite a frown—something kinder than that. She speaks softly. “If there is anything else that you want to tell us, Brandi, this is the time.”

The way she says my name, it’s like she’s removed a barrier. She’s making this personal, and I think she’s still on my side. Her fishing for more almost feels like a warning in disguise.

I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m done talking until I get a lawyer.”

Visibly frustrated, Bierman pushes himself up from the table. His posture betrays his pride when he stands up, as if the badge and the gun make up for what he lacks in character.

He leans forward, hands pressing into the metal. “Listen, it’s understandable what emotions you were feeling. You and Van Doren have this thing going on. Last thing you expect is for him to drop you from the summer program. You’re hurt. Confused, maybe. Then—”

“I never—”

“I get it. You caught feelings. He didn’t. He moves on to someone else. You think maybe you have a chance to win him back. But then he gets engaged. Now you’re furious. He ignores you. You threaten him. He still doesn’t respond, so you snap and kill him. After all, you have a history of violence.” He straightens, satisfied that he has made his case.

For a second I imagine him at home, watching Fox News before dinner and texting some other woman while in bed with his wife, and then I sneer at him. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Glover gets my cuffs back on and steers me toward the door.

I haven’t been found guilty of anything yet. I’ve only been accused. I don’t have to talk to them if I don’t want to, just like he said.

I don’t want to. They have their theory, but I don’t care. They’re wrong. And I refuse to let them try to pressure me into admitting to a crime I didn’t commit. That’s all they want: a confession. I know how this works. It makes things easier for them, costs them less money. The quicker they solve a case, the better. Especially with a high-profile person like Simon. The public will be demanding justice soon.

They don’t care about me.

I keep walking, waiting for Bierman to stop me, but he doesn’t.

Then I hear a voice at my back. Bierman. “Ms. Maxwell, please understand. I won’t be able to help you once you leave this room.”

“I don’t need your help,” I tell him, and walk through the door, Glover right on my heels. Two guards are waiting, eager to put their hands on me and take me back to my holding cell.