"[Nelson Whitney]: Got it, Laurel. The knife's ready."
"[Russ Pruitt]: I'll keep lookout. Already got someone to hack the surveillance."
I looked at the chat logs and nearly laughed out loud.
"Officer, these don't even have account IDs. Two burner phones and a couple of swapped avatars—anyone could fake this in five minutes."
Detective Mercer tapped open a photo.
"What about this?"
In the photo, I was wearing my high school uniform, holding up a machete nearly half a meter long. The blade was smeared with something red.
The background was the dim streetlight in the alley behind the college district.
"That's you, isn't it?"
I stared at the photo for a full ten seconds.
It was from my eighteenth birthday, ten years ago. What I'd actually been holding was a pink plastic cake knife.
Nelson hadn't just photoshopped the knife into a machete. He'd cut out the background and replaced it with the alley.
I raised my head and looked at Detective Mercer.
"Officer, this photo is doctored."
He slammed his palm on the table.
"Doctored? The guy who reported you handed over video of the actual attack!"
He pulled up a blurry surveillance clip.
In it, a girl with short hair wearing the same uniform as mine was slashing wildly with a knife.
The lighting was so dim you couldn't make out a face.
"That's not me." My voice was level.
"Laurel Fox, don't think for a second you're walking out of this!" Detective Mercer's voice cracked like a whip.
"There are thirty-six people in your class. We just finished taking statements from every single one of them overnight."
"Thirty-five people. Identical accounts. Every one of them identified you as the mastermind."
I looked at the familiar signatures. Damian Delgado. Russ Pruitt. One after another after another, the names kept going.
I leaned back in my chair.
"Officer, thirty-five counts of perjury. How many years does that carry, again?"
The color drained from Detective Mercer's face.
"Laurel Fox, I've been working cases for twenty years. I've seen arrogance. Never this much."
He jabbed a finger at the stack of statements.
"Thirty-five people telling the exact same story. You think anyone's going to take your word over theirs?"
I watched his finger tremble with barely contained anger.
"The law believes evidence."
The young officer taking notes looked up and glared at me.
"Your attitude is abysmal. Refusing to confess to the facts of your crime won't do you any favors."
I closed my eyes and said nothing more.
In my last life I'd fought to explain, and all it earned me was their laughter and Damian sneering, "Who are you trying to fool with the innocent act?"
Now I understood. The moment you start defending yourself, every word out of your mouth becomes ammunition for the other side.
The interrogation room sank into a silence like death.
After some time, the door opened.
A sharply dressed superior walked in and murmured a few words into Detective Mercer's ear.
Mercer glanced at me, then followed the man out.
The door didn't close all the way. Voices drifted in from the corridor.
"Sir, this case is blowing up—media caught wind somehow, and now it's all over the internet."
"What's the witness, that Nelson Whitney, saying?"
"He brought a few classmates outside for interviews. Talking about rooting out criminal syndicates."
The corner of my mouth twitched. Nelson's addiction to playing the hero was getting worse by the day.
Ten minutes later, Detective Mercer walked back in.
He set a detention notice on the table in front of me.
"Laurel Fox—on suspicion of organizing and leading a criminal syndicate and of aggravated assault, you are hereby placed under criminal detention."
