Chapter 3 Murderer!

Jane's POV

The truth burned in my chest—I was innocent. But how could I prove that when everything pointed to my guilt? Pure survival instinct kicked in, and panic flooded my entire body.

I stumbled toward the door, my blood-soaked feet slipping on the tiles. I had to get out of here, had to escape before they found me. Maybe if I could run, I could figure out what really happened, find a way to prove my innocence.

I need something... anything to protect myself... The thought flashed through my panicked mind as heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs outside. Without thinking, my fingers—clumsy with fear—fumbled for and gripped the knife handle again. Some primal instinct was telling me I needed to defend myself from what was coming.

Heavy footsteps were getting closer every second. I couldn't make out what orders they were shouting, but I knew they were coming for me.

But when I reached the door and yanked it open, I found three police officers standing there with their weapons drawn and pointed directly at me. Their faces were grim but professional, showing not a trace of mercy or understanding.

Behind them, I could see Mrs. Patterson from 7B. Her face was filled with fear and disgust, her finger pointing at me accusingly.

"That's her!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos. "That's the psycho who killed him! I heard terrible screaming, and when I looked, she was right there standing over his body, covered in blood!"

More neighbors had gathered in the hallway, their faces showing shock, fear, and anger.

"Murderer!" someone in the crowd called out.

"How could you do that to Michael?" another voice demanded. "He was such a good man!"

"She's sick!" Mrs. Patterson's voice rose to a hysterical pitch. "Look at her! Look at all that blood!"

The hallway erupted in angry voices, all directed at me. I could hear their accusations cutting through the noise:

"I always knew something was wrong with her..."

"Writing those twisted stories..."

"Michael tried to help everyone, and this is what he gets..."

"Lock her up and throw away the key!"

I stood there—my hands trembling uncontrollably. The hatred from the crowd hit me like a physical force, their words heavier than any blow.

"Don't move!" one of the officers barked, his voice cutting over the noise. "Drop the weapon!"

I stared down at the knife in my hands, suddenly aware of what I was holding. The blade gleamed in the hallway light, still stained with Michael's blood.

"You're under arrest," the officer continued, his gun never wavering. "Put the knife down slowly and get on your knees."

I wanted to shout that I was innocent, that I didn't remember anything, that someone had to believe me. But as I looked into their cold, unforgiving eyes and heard the neighbors' continued accusations and curses behind them, I knew it was already too late.

The police car slowly made its way toward the Millbrook Police Station, with me sitting in the back seat wearing handcuffs, staring through the bulletproof glass and wire mesh at the world outside.

Cherry blossom trees lined both sides of the street, in full bloom, their pink and white petals dancing in the spring breeze—so beautiful, yet such a stark contrast to the despair consuming my heart.

In years past, at this time, I would sit in the coffee shop at University Square with my notebook, watching people come and go, searching for inspiration for my novels. Now, I was the criminal being transported.

When the police station building came into view, I saw a crowd of reporters had already gathered at the entrance. They carried cameras and held microphones, waiting like vultures.

These people didn't even know I existed yesterday, and now they were ready to tear my life to shreds and broadcast it on the evening news.

Something seemed off to me—how did this get out so fast? But then I realized, of course it did. All those people were watching me, and they'd already posted everything online.

"Jane Miller," Officer Martinez turned around from the passenger seat. Her Latina features were serious and professional. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?"

I'd already heard the Miranda warning, but this time it felt so real, so final. It left me feeling utterly hopeless. I just never thought I'd be on the receiving end of those words someday.

"I understand," I said quietly, my voice barely audible.

The car stopped, the door opened. Camera flashes erupted like lightning, stinging my eyes. Reporters shouted questions, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise:

"Miss Miller, did you kill Michael Washington?"

"Why did you write down a murder plan?"

"What does your father have to say about this?"

"Was this racially motivated?"

I wanted to say I wasn't the killer, but looking at their accusatory faces, I could only swallow my words.

And that last question nearly made me stumble. Racially motivated? They thought I was some kind of racist? I kept my head down as two officers escorted me into the police station building.

The fluorescent lights were blindingly white, and I could feel every person's gaze in the lobby on me—officers, clerks, waiting visitors, everyone staring at this woman accused of murdering her neighbor.

The booking process was cold and mechanical. During fingerprinting, the officer gripped my fingers, pressing them hard onto the ink pad, then onto the card.

During the photo session, the flash stung my eyes again. I really didn't do it, but no one believes me.

Everything made me feel like I'd already been convicted, that the trial would just be a formality.

Finally, the handcuffs were removed, and I was led to a small interrogation room. The overhead lighting cast harsh shadows across the metal table, its surface reflecting the stark white light.