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?"
