County jail smells like industrial cleaner and broken dreams, which would be a great opening line for a podcast episode if I weren't currently living it.
They've taken my phone, my jacket (with the flash drive still in the pocket—thank god they didn't search it thoroughly), my shoes, and my dignity. In exchange, I get an orange jumpsuit that's three sizes too big, a scratchy blanket, and a cellmate named Destiny who's in for check fraud and has opinions about my case.
"You're the podcast girl," she says the moment the guard locks me in. "The one who killed her shrink with a microphone. That's cold."
"I didn't kill anyone."
"Sure, honey. None of us did." She's lying on the bottom bunk, flipping through a magazine that's six months old. "But between you and me? Respect. My therapist told me I had 'boundary issues' and 'an inability to process consequences.' Bitch had it coming."
"You killed your therapist?"
"Nah. But I thought about it." She looks up at me, grinning. "That's the difference between you and me, I guess. I just think about it."
I climb onto the top bunk and stare at the ceiling. There's a stain shaped like Florida. Or maybe a gun. Probably a gun. My brain is wired to see violence in everything.
The flash drive is gone. They have my jacket. Which means whatever Monday Maya wanted to tell me is locked away in an evidence room somewhere, and I'm stuck in here with no memory, no alibi, and a cellmate who thinks I'm a murderer.
Maybe I am.
No. Stop it. That's the intrusive thought talking. That's the OCD spiral that Dr. Hartley spent eight months teaching me to recognize and interrupt.
Dr. Hartley, who's dead.
Dr. Hartley, who apparently kept notes about me wanting to kill people.
Dr. Hartley, who texted me Monday afternoon to meet him alone.
Except Dr. Hartley never texted. He was old school. He barely knew how to use email. He once spent fifteen minutes of our session trying to figure out why his computer screen went black. (I had to tell him it was a screensaver. He'd never seen one before.)
So who texted me from his phone?
"Hey," I call down to Destiny. "How long have you been in here?"
"Three weeks. Why?"
"You know anyone who can get messages out? Like, to people on the outside?"
She sits up, interested now. "Depends. What kind of message?"
"I need to talk to my podcast partner. Tell her something important."
"Guards read all the mail. Phone calls are recorded." Destiny swings her legs off the bunk and looks up at me. "But my cousin works in the laundry. For fifty bucks, she'll smuggle a note out in the clean uniforms."
"I don't have fifty bucks. They took everything."
"Then you better hope your podcast partner visits soon." She lies back down. "Or you could tell me what's so important. I'm bored as hell."
I almost laugh. Because what am I supposed to say? I left myself a flash drive I can't access with information about a murder I can't remember? That I think someone is framing me but I have no idea who or why? That the blood under my fingernails might be my own because I have a habit of picking at my cuticles when I'm anxious?
Actually, that last part is true. I checked in the bathroom during processing. Three of my cuticles are torn up. The blood is mine. Not Dr. Hartley's. Which should be a relief except now I have no explanation for why I was bleeding.
"Never mind," I tell Destiny. "I'll figure it out."
"Suit yourself."
I close my eyes and try to reconstruct Monday. If I went to Dr. Hartley's office at 2:47 PM, and he died sometime between three and six, then I was there when it happened. Either I killed him, or I saw who did, or I was unconscious while someone else killed him and framed me.
All three options are terrible.
Think, Maya. What's the last thing you remember before Monday disappeared?
Sunday night. Leftover pad thai. Editing the podcast. I was working on the episode about the Whitmore case—a woman who killed her husband and convinced everyone it was a home invasion. She almost got away with it too, except she made one mistake. She used her own knife. Left her fingerprints on the handle even after wiping down the blade.
Amateur mistake.
If I were going to kill someone, I wouldn't use my own weapon. I'd use something untraceable. Something that couldn't be connected back to me.
But someone used MY microphone. Someone wanted it connected to me.
Unless I wanted it to look like I was being framed.
No. That's crazy. That's paranoid. That's—
"Chen!" A guard is at the cell door. "You have a visitor."
I sit up so fast I almost fall off the bunk. "Who?"
"Lawyer. Let's go."
Thank god. Finally someone who can help me. I follow the guard down a hallway that smells like ammonia and desperation, into a small room with a table and two chairs. A woman is waiting for me, mid-forties, designer suit, briefcase that probably costs more than my rent.
"Maya Chen?" She extends her hand. "I'm Rebecca Voss. Imani called me. I'm going to be representing you."
I shake her hand and sit down. "I didn't kill him."
"Save it. I don't care if you did or didn't. My job is to keep you out of prison." She pulls out a legal pad and a pen. "The DA is pushing for Murder One. Premeditated. They're going to argue that you've been planning this for months based on your therapy notes. That you fantasized about killing someone who betrayed your trust, and when Dr. Hartley threatened to break confidentiality—"
"Why would he break confidentiality?"
Rebecca looks at me like I'm slow. "Because you were a danger to yourself or others. That's the exception to therapist-client privilege. If he believed you were going to act on your violent thoughts, he was legally obligated to report it."
My stomach drops. "But I wasn't going to—"
"Doesn't matter what you were going to do. Matters what he thought you were going to do. And based on his notes, he thought you were escalating." She flips through her briefcase, pulls out a file. "I got copies of his session records from the DA. They're not pretty, Maya. Listen to this: 'Patient exhibits signs of deteriorating reality testing. Unable to distinguish between intrusive thoughts and genuine intentions. When asked if she would actually commit violence, patient became defensive and refused to answer. Recommend psychiatric evaluation.'"
"When did he write that?"
"Last Thursday. Four days before he died."
Four days before someone killed him with my microphone.
"He was going to have me committed," I say slowly.
"Looks like it. Which gives you motive. You found out he was going to report you, so you killed him before he could." Rebecca leans forward. "That's what the DA is going to argue. We need to get ahead of it."
"I can't remember Monday. Any of it. I think someone drugged me."
"Do you have proof?"
"No."
"Did you get a tox screen?"
"No."
"Then we can't use that. Without evidence, it's just a convenient story." She taps her pen against her legal pad. "Here's what we're going to do. We'll argue diminished capacity. Say the OCD was worse than anyone knew. That you had a psychotic break, acted in a fugue state. You didn't know what you were doing. Not guilty by reason of insanity."
"I'm not insane."
"You're not guilty either, allegedly. But insanity is a lot easier to prove than innocence." She levels her gaze at me. "With your family history, we can make it work."
"My family history?"
"Your aunt. Julie Chen. Spent fifteen years in psychiatric care after killing her husband and living with the body for a month. Mental illness runs in families, Maya. The jury will buy it."
I feel sick. "You want me to plead insane and end up like Aunt Julie? Locked up in a psychiatric prison?"
"Better than actual prison. At least there's a chance you get out someday." Rebecca closes her file. "Look, I know it's not ideal. But unless you can remember what happened Monday, or unless we can find evidence that someone else killed Dr. Hartley, this is your best shot."
"There is evidence. I left myself a flash drive."
Her eyes sharpen. "What?"
"Monday. Before I forgot everything. I left myself a flash drive in my jacket pocket with a note that said to watch it. But they took my jacket during processing and I don't know if—"
"Where is this flash drive now?"
"Evidence room, maybe? Or still in the jacket pocket if they didn't find it?"
Rebecca is already pulling out her phone. "I'll file a motion to review all evidence collected from you during arrest. If that flash drive is there, we'll get it." She pauses. "But Maya, listen to me. If there's something on that drive that incriminates you, we need to know now. I can't defend you if you're lying to me."
"I'm not lying. I don't even know what's on it. That's the whole point."
She studies me for a long moment. "Okay. I believe you. Or at least, I believe you believe you. That's good enough for now." She stands. "Don't talk to anyone about your case. Not your cellmate, not the guards, not other inmates. People will try to get you to confess. They'll offer deals, threaten you, befriend you. Don't trust anyone."
"What about Detective Cross?"
"Especially not Detective Cross. He's good at his job, which means he's good at making suspects think he's on their side. He's not. None of them are." She heads for the door, then stops. "One more thing. Imani wants to visit. Should I allow it?"
"Yes. Please. I need to talk to her."
"Not about the case. Not about what you remember or don't remember. The police could be listening. Just small talk."
"Got it."
Rebecca leaves. The guard escorts me back to my cell, where Destiny is doing push-ups on the floor.
"Fancy lawyer," she says between reps. "You must be guilty as hell."
"Why do you say that?"
"Innocent people get public defenders. Guilty people get lawyers in Prada suits who know how to make juries cry." She finishes her set and stands up. "So what'd you really do to that therapist? It must've been bad if you can't even remember it."
I climb back onto my bunk and turn to face the wall.
Because that's the question, isn't it? What did I do Monday? And more importantly—why did Monday Maya think I needed to forget?
Maybe I'm not being framed.
Maybe I'm being protected.
From the truth.
From myself.
From what I'm actually capable of.