Chapter 5: So You'll Help Me?

Jane's POV

The air in the interrogation room felt thick, suffocating. David's blue eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that reminded me of my father's cold stare, like I was something broken that disappointed him. Those few seconds of eye contact stretched into what felt like eternity.

David opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. His jaw tightened, and I watched him slip that professional lawyer mask back into place.

"David, you still haven't answered whether you'll help me or not." My voice came out shaky, desperate.

But he was already standing, his chair scraping against the concrete floor with a harsh, grating sound. Without another word, he began gathering the papers scattered across the metal table, his movements sharp and mechanical.

The door slammed shut with a finality that rang through the small room. I listened to his footsteps echo down the hallway, each one like a hammer blow to my chest.

The screech of that chair seemed to mock me, remind me that I'd been naive to think anyone would actually believe me.

He left. Just like everyone else in my life, he walked away. The silence he left behind was a physical weight, pressing down on me. I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened as disappointment crushed down on me, squeezing out what little hope I had left.

I dug my nails into the webbing between my thumb and forefinger.

Back in my cell, I sat on the ice-cold metal bench, staring at a crack running down the opposite wall.

Twenty-six years old, and I thought I'd gotten used to being abandoned—life had taught me how to survive when everyone gave up on me.

I thought I'd already hit rock bottom, been through enough hell. But why is fate so damn cruel? Why does it have to strip me of everything and push me toward death? I'm completely falling apart.

I closed my eyes and let myself drift back to when I was eight years old, lying in that hospital bed at Greenville General. Mom sat beside me in her police uniform, her warm hand wrapped around my small one. "My brave girl," she whispered, her voice soft and proud. "Miller women are fighters."

Dad stood in the doorway then, his face etched with worry and love. Back then, he actually cared about me.

Those long dialysis sessions were horrible, the machines and needles and constant ache in my side, but having both parents there made it bearable.

Dad would bring me books, and Mom would tell me stories about brave police officers who always caught the bad guys.

"I'm so proud of you both," I remembered thinking. "Dad's a forensic pathologist, Mom's a cop. We're a team that fights for justice."

But everything changed after Mom died in that car accident. Dad transformed into someone I didn't recognize, and suddenly Linda was there, watching my father's belt come down again and again while she organized her jewelry like my screams were just background noise.

I'd worked so hard to build a life after that. College, student loans I'd finally paid off, building a career as a suspense novelist. For a while, it felt like I'd actually made it—like I'd overcome the damage and created something good.

Now, sitting in this freezing cell, I felt that old familiar isolation creeping back in. Even my own lawyer didn't believe me.

Why? Why the hell did I end up like this? Tears streamed down my face.

I let my mind wander to Michael Washington, and immediately felt that familiar knot of confusion in my stomach. When I first moved into River Heights Apartments, he really had been the perfect neighbor. This friendly guy in 7C who always smiled in the elevator and offered to help carry groceries.

"Morning, Jane. Need a hand with those bags?"

Michael genuinely seemed like one of the good ones. When my Wi-Fi went down for three days, he knocked on my door with a piece of paper. "Here's my network password. Use it as long as you need."

When I caught that nasty flu last winter, I found a bag of soup and cold medicine outside my door with a note: Hope you feel better soon! —M

Rosa Smith would always gush about him. "That young man is such a sweetheart. He fixed my leaky faucet last week and wouldn't take a penny for it." Other neighbors said the same thing—thoughtful, polite, always willing to lend a hand. I believed it too, completely.

Until that night three months ago.

I'd gone down to throw away some trash around eleven PM, when I heard these weird sounds coming from the alley behind our building. Curiosity got the better of me, and I crept over to investigate. Through the gap between two dumpsters, I saw something that still makes my stomach turn.

Michael was holding a small orange tabby cat, and the expression on his face was nothing like the friendly neighbor I knew. His eyes were cold, calculating, and there was this twisted smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The cat was making these awful, desperate sounds, and Michael was looking at it with this sick kind of pleasure.

I stood there frozen, unable to process what I was seeing. This couldn't be the same guy who brought me soup when I was sick, who helped Mrs. Martinez with her groceries every week.

I backed away slowly, my heart pounding so hard I thought he might hear it. That night I barely slept, replaying that horrible scene over and over. "Maybe I misunderstood," I kept telling myself. "Maybe the cat was stuck and he was trying to help."

But deep down, I knew what I'd seen.

The worst part was that after that night, Michael went right back to being the perfect neighbor. He still smiled at me in the elevator, still offered to help with packages. Just two weeks ago when I had that bad cold, there was another bag of medicine outside my door with his familiar handwritten note.

He continued helping Rosa, continued being the building's unofficial handyman, continued being everyone's favorite neighbor. If anything, he seemed even more helpful than before.

I thought about reporting what I'd seen, but to who? Animal Control? The police? What would I even say? "I saw my neighbor doing something to a stray cat, but I don't have any proof, and everyone thinks he's a saint?"

I could already imagine other people's response: "Jane, you must have misunderstood. Michael wouldn't hurt a fly. He's the kindest young man I've ever met."

So I stayed quiet. I accepted his help when he offered it, smiled politely when we passed in the hall, and said "thank you" when he left medicine at my door. But every interaction felt tainted by what I'd witnessed that night.

How could someone be so gentle with people and so cruel to a helpless animal? The contradiction kept me awake some nights, this nagging sense that the Michael everyone loved was just a carefully constructed mask.

Now he was dead, and I was the only suspect. All those kind gestures had become evidence of our "close relationship." My complicated feelings about him had been twisted into motive for murder.

The cruelest irony was that everyone was mourning this "wonderful man" while I sat here unable to feel pure grief for someone whose death I was blamed for.

I wanted to tell David about the cat, about the side of Michael that no one else had seen. But how would that look? A woman accused of murder suddenly revealing the victim's dark secrets? It would only make me seem more desperate, more vindictive.

I pulled my knees to my chest, feeling the cold seep through the thin jail uniform. Even my last thread of hope had been cut loose.

David was gone.

The shadow of my father blended with the lawyer's departing form. History played out its cruel repetition upon me, abandoning me once again to solitude.