As soon as Chelsea walks through the door, I jump on her, wanting to talk about my problems—the ones involving my mother.

After my long day, I’m desperately in need of a friend. But Chelsea’s face is flushed with rage. She has problems of her own—the usual, I suspect.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.

She throws her handbag onto her bed, followed by herself. “No. Neil is such an idiot. He doesn’t see what’s in front of him. You know, I thought things would change after I took him back.”

Disappointed that I won’t be getting the attention I need, I nevertheless slump onto the couch and listen to my friend’s despair. Maybe afterward we can talk about me.

She tells me Neil started crying again after sex last night, that he proposed to her again, and she rejected him yet again.

“He’s such a fool.” Chelsea laughs bitterly. “He thinks getting engaged will diminish all this guilt. It’s the closest thing to being married, he says. I don’t believe that for a moment. Unless we get married—which I’m so not ready for—he’ll always feel guilty about sleeping with me. And I won’t get engaged or married before I’m ready.”

“Slow down, Chelsea. Take a breath.” I go to her bed and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She covers her face with both her hands and takes several deep breaths. When she removes her hands, there are tears in her eyes. All I can do is be there for her, wait while she sorts things out for herself and makes a decision she’s happy with, no matter how long it takes for her to get to the place she wants to be.

For the next hour, I let her cry on my shoulder until she feels lighter. Then she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. She digs inside her bag for her phone, and disappears with it inside the bathroom. I know she’s talking to Neil, because I can hear her side of an argument through the thin walls.

She walks out ten minutes later with red, puffy eyes. She’s seriously hurting. I don’t have the heart to trouble her with my own problems right now.

Chelsea kisses me on the cheek and grabs her bag again before storming out of the room.

For dinner, I eat my takeout Chinese noodles and chicken alone. Then I finally switch on my phone.

There are six messages from Judson, all saying the same thing:

Where the hell are you? We need to talk.

He sounds desperate and worried at once.

I don’t respond, but I leave the phone on as I get ready for bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, the phone rings. It’s him.

“Who told you I’m guilty?” His voice is quivering with fury.

“News websites.” I grip the phone tightly. I don’t know what he will do if I tell him about Jennifer. I won’t throw her under the bus for being kind enough to warn me.

“Why are you reading up on me? I don’t like it.”

My own rage rises to the surface. “Judson, in case you’re not aware, everyone is talking about you, about what happened. I hear about you whether I want to or not.”

“So you think I did it, do you? You believe what everyone is saying? I thought you didn’t listen to what people say.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. You never exactly told me you didn’t do it. You only said ‘the jury will decide.’ Tell me the truth, Judson. Tell me what I should believe. It’s a simple question. Did you kill Oliver Banes or not?”

“I am innocent. Is that what you want to hear? Does my answer satisfy you?”

I don’t respond. I’m so conflicted. Even though everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I have to admit that the only person who really knows the truth about what happened is Oliver Banes. Judson’s fingerprints were found at the crime scene—a lecture hall—but so were many other people’s.

“I didn’t do it, Ivy. But most people don’t believe me. I can only hope the jury does.” His voice is gentler now, sad. “Do you believe me?”

“For now.” What I want to say is I don’t know. I still feel as confused as I did before he called.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I sigh. “It means that right this minute, I believe what you’re saying. But in the next couple of days, I don’t know. I might read or hear something and change my mind.”

“Fair enough. Just don’t turn your back on me. It’s dark in this place, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing someone cares—that you care.”

Tears fill my eyes as I glance at the boxes my mother sent. “I’m sorry. I have to go to bed. Let’s talk another time.”

“Are you okay?” Concern taints his voice. “You sound sad. What’s going on? Is it because of me?”

“No.” Not just you.

He continues pressing me to tell him what’s wrong. So I do. He listens to me talk tearfully about my mother without interrupting.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he says when I’m done. “Listen, I’m here. I swear to you I’m innocent. One day I’ll get out of this place, and we’ll be together for real. You don’t need your mother. I’ll take care of you. Do you hear me? Do you need money? I can arrange for some to be wired to you.”

Jennifer’s words return to me. Don’t let the prison walls fool you.

As much as his concern touches me, I shake my head vigorously. Money would give him too much power over me. “No, no. I have enough to live on. Thanks for caring.”

“I always will. Now, don’t ever doubt my innocence, you hear? I love you.”

“I’ll try.”

Instead of going back to bed, I turn on my laptop and purchase an electronic copy of Toxic Love, the English version of Amour Toxique.

It’s a short book that completely draws me in from the first word. The main character is Delmar Petit, the son of an alcoholic prostitute in Paris, who grew up without a father. The only constant in his poverty-stricken life was his mother’s mental and physical abuse. At thirteen, his mother tried to poison him, but failed. That night he ran away. The streets of Paris became his new home, and there, at fifteen, he met Chantal, a stunning dancer. It was love at first sight for both of them, but after a whirlwind romance, his love overtook hers. When she withdrew from him, his love turned fatal. He refused to live even a second without her. He warned her that if she tried to leave, he’d send her to the grave. She eventually managed to escape him, and fell in love with someone else. On her wedding day, Delmar showed up and stabbed her to death in front of all the guests. Two days after his arrest, he hanged himself.

By the time I finish the book, my eyes are blurry with tears and exhaustion from staring at the screen for hours. It’s three in the morning, but my aching chest will never let me sleep. Jennifer had meant for the book to put me off Judson. But the story is pure fiction. Delmar and Chantal aren’t real, I tell myself.

With every ounce of me, I decide to believe what Judson has told me. Instead of fear, the feeling that spreads through my heart as I climb under my sheets and wrap my arms around my body is the hot desire to get to know Judson better, to peel back his layers and see beneath them.

As my eyes grow heavy, I finally manage to wipe Amour Toxique from my mind and fall asleep, replaying everything Judson said to me over the phone, listening to the concern in his voice, his need to step in and be my knight in shining armor.

I didn’t tell him I loved him back, but I think I do.