AKSHAY: I . . . I mean, that’s awful, to think, if it’s true. There was no sign of it; she seemed normal, just having fun, hanging out, you know?

CLARA: So you don’t think she knew?

AKSHAY: If she did, then she hid it really well, acting like nothing was wrong.

CLARA: Which could, in fact, be another one of those warning signs. Dr. Holt?

MARTIN: Hi, Clara, yes, from what you’re saying, this could be more evidence about her damaged mental state. To plan a murder in this kind of premeditated fashion takes us away from a jealous frenzy and into the territory of a cold-blooded killer. It’s a big difference, especially if, down the line, we come to a murder versus a manslaughter charge, or some kind of plea bargain in the trial.

CLARA: “Cold-blooded killer,” there you have it people. These are questions I’m sure the police on the island will be following very closely. Was it rage? Was it planned? I don’t know about you, but the more I’m seeing of this girl, the more . . . I guess damaged, is the only word for it. Damaged, and dangerous. All right, that’s all for tonight. Stay tuned for the news on the hour with Dave and Erin, and coming up tomorrow, more on the Elise Warren murder: The local trader who could have seen everything—a witness disappears. Could he hold the key to the truth? Join us tomorrow here on KCFX, your destination for news and sport.

BACK

The show cuts to commercial again. This time, every woman in the room is staring at me.

I try to remind myself how to breathe.

I knew it was bad out there. Even locked up, I’ve seen glimpses of newspapers and TV news. It wasn’t as if I thought everyone would be lined up, protesting my innocence, but still, Clara’s show takes my breath away. I thought it would be more . . . balanced. Isn’t that what the news is supposed to do? Present both sides of the story, fairly, not jump to conclusions based on leaked information, and biased statements? We’re still months away from the trial; even Ellingham swore they didn’t have enough evidence to convict, so where’s the support? Some kind of outcry about my arrest? Instead, they showed nothing on my side—no mention of Juan, or Tate’s lies and cheating; the balcony issue, or all the problems with the crime scene—nothing, not one hint I might be innocent in all of this.

They assume I’m guilty, and they can’t wait to see me burn.

“Killer.”

The voice comes from behind me, loud and clear. I turn. One of the other inmates is lounging back on a chair, her legs draped wide. I’ve seen her before, in the mess hall, or the yard. She’s short and bulky, in her early twenties, maybe, with dark tattoos dancing across her collarbone, hair braided in tight cornrows that swing to her shoulders. The girl gives me a sly smile, eyes dark as her stare meets mine, unflinching and direct.

She says it again, with a curl of amusement to her lips. “Killer.”

I drop my eyes and start to walk away, heading back toward the far doors, but the girl uncoils herself from her seat and moves to casually block my path. “Where you going, killer?” she asks, folding her arms.

My pulse kicks. I try to sidestep, still looking down. She mirrors, blocking me.

I feel a shiver of fear.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I tell her softly, holding my palms out, like surrender. I glance quickly around the room, but the guard who usually loiters by the doors is nowhere to be seen. The other inmates start to circle, their body language snapping alert.

My fear shifts to panic.

I’ve seen this before, the lunchroom fights and exercise yard beatdowns. The women here like to brawl, violent and vicious, and I’ve watched from a distance how quickly the trouble in here flares, like everyone’s a powder keg, waiting for a spark to go up in flames. I’ve spent every day so careful not to catch someone’s eye or accidentally jostle them in the hall. Head down, eyes down, just keep moving, stay out of trouble. But now trouble is here, determination clear on her face in front of me.

“It’s okay,” I say again, backing up. I just have to hold her off until the guard gets back. “Please . . .”

“Please?” the girl repeats, smirking. She turns to the circle. “Killer’s got manners. Please and thank you, yes ma’am.” She turns back to me. “So, did you ask your girl permission before you slit her throat?”

I look away, knowing it’s useless even as I mutter the words “I didn’t kill her.”

“No? So what are you doing in here?” The girl’s sneer slips, becomes something cruel and full of anger. “I seen you, walking round like you’re so much better than us. You think we don’t know? Huh?” She gets closer. “We’re all the same in here, killer.”

“I didn’t do it.” I hear my own voice, stronger, even before I register the words are coming from my mouth.

It’s a mistake. There’s a pause, so electric I can hear my blood pounding, and then the girl lunges at me. I barely have time to get my hands up in defense before her body is on mine and she’s tearing at my hair, clawing at my face.

We tumble to the floor as yells go up from the crowd. I manage to deflect her blows, rolling out from underneath her, gasping for breath, but then she’s coming at me again, her face twisted, violence in her eyes like I’ve never seen before.

For all of Elise’s and my adventures in the dark city streets, I haven’t come close to violence, a physical threat of any kind. They gave us self-defense classes in gym freshman year: staid, awkward routines where we’d carefully lunge at each other and sidestep in a polite ballet, but this is a world away from the neat choreography: a vicious assault, too quick to think, too fast to do anything but grapple and claw, rolling on the hard tile floor as the other inmates holler and howl, flinching as her blows hit home, blood sharp like metal in my mouth.

The girl drives her elbow into my stomach, making me gulp for air. Her face is lit up, breathless and bright; nose bloody from one of my desperate blocks. She grins through the smear of scarlet, raising her fist again, ready to smash it down into my face, and from some distant place, I realize: She’s enjoying this. She likes it. The fight, the pain, the struggle.

Her joy is her power.

I snap.

Ducking to the side, I turn to block her fist, then bring my elbow sweeping up in a glorious arc that cracks against her face. Her head snaps back, her momentum lost, and I pull myself up, rolling so she’s trapped underneath me, still dazed. I slam my elbow down against her face, her throat, her chest, again and again. There’s screaming, sharp and grotesque, but the roars of the crowd recede like the waves until I can’t hear anything but my own drumming heartbeat and the dull thud of bone on tile as her head cracks back, blood spilling on the pale floor like blossoms in the snow. It’s almost beautiful, but I don’t care. I’m not here anymore, I’m not anywhere—all I am is sheer, pure rage and fists and skin.