Chapter 3 Michael Is Really Kind

Jane's POV

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.

When the door opened, a woman walked in. She wore a crisp navy blue suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect low bun.

"Let's go over this again, Miss Miller. I'm Michelle Johnson, Assistant District Attorney." She sat down, pushing a clear evidence bag across the table. Inside was a notebook—my notebook—opened to pages covered with my handwriting. "This is your story outline, correct?"

I forced myself to look at the words I'd written weeks ago. My handwriting looked so foreign, as if someone else had written it: [Chapter 1: Murder on a stormy night. She finally snaps. Seven stabs end his concern. Lightning illuminates her silhouette standing over the body. Blood spreads across the floor, mixing with the rain to create a symphony of death.]

A lump formed in my throat, making it hard to speak. "That's... that's fiction writing. I write suspense novels. It's my job."

"A novel that bears a striking resemblance to the Michael Washington murder scene." Michelle's voice was crisp and professional, each word piercing my heart like an ice pick. "A Black male, stabbed seven times. The only difference? Your story mentions a stormy night, but it was clear that evening. Can you explain this coincidence?"

A clear evening? The information hit me like a cold wave. My memory of that night was a complete void—not even the sky, not even the weather. How could I explain what I couldn't remember?

"Because I researched stab wounds for authenticity!" The words came out sharper than I intended, echoing in the small room. "I always do detailed research when I write. I look up medical texts, study crime scenes, read forensic reports. It's to make my novels more realistic, more engaging for readers. That doesn't make me a killer."

Johnson was about to respond when there was a sharp knock at the door. A young officer stepped in, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

"Ms. Johnson, sorry to interrupt. Dr. Miller is here about the preliminary report. He says he needs to speak with you privately about the procedural requirements before his recusal takes effect."

My heart stopped. Thomas Miller. My father was here, in this building, signing off on the evidence that could destroy me.

Michelle looked annoyed at the interruption. "Tell Dr. Miller I'll be with him in five minutes. We're in the middle of an interrogation."

The officer nodded and left. Michelle turned back to me, but I could barely focus on her words. My father was just down the hall, treating this like any other case.

"Your father's the county medical examiner," Michelle stated, not really a question. "He's been formally recused from this case due to conflict of interest, but protocol requires his signature on the transition paperwork before Dr. Evans takes over completely."

I nodded, unable to speak. Even in his recusal, his professional stamp would be on this case—the case that could send his own daughter to prison.

Even after three years of no contact, knowing he was just steps away still made my chest tighten, as if an invisible hand was squeezing my lungs.

Michelle opened a folder, scanning the preliminary report. "Dr. Evans's initial examination identified seven stab wounds, with what appears to be a fatal injury to the cervical spine. The wound pattern matches exactly what's described in your story outline. Estimated time of death between 2 and 4 AM. The full autopsy and toxicology reports will take several days, but what we have is already substantial."

My father's signature would be on those papers. His own daughter, and I was just another case file to be closed.

"I was exhausted that night," I managed to say, each word feeling heavy. "I'd had terrible nightmares... when I finally woke up for real, I was there." The memory hit me like a physical blow, making it hard to breathe. Blood. So much blood. Michael's eyes, wide open, lifeless, just inches from mine. His mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but never could. "I don't remember anything between falling back asleep and waking up in that hallway."

"How convenient," Michelle said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "So you have a convenient bout of amnesia that starts right before you leave your apartment and ends right after you stab your neighbor seven times?"

"Regarding Michael Washington," Michelle flipped through her notes, "what was your relationship with him? What did you know about him?"

I took a shaky breath. "He was my neighbor. He lived in 7C, I'm in 7D. We'd pass each other in the hallway sometimes. He had helped me before, and he was always kind to everyone. We didn't really keep in touch much. That's all I knew about him."

"Just neighbors?" Michelle's eyebrow arched skeptically. "No arguments? No complaints about noise? Nothing that might suggest tension between you?"

"No, nothing like that. Michael is really kind." My voice cracked. "I would never hurt him. I would never hurt anyone."

There was another knock at the door. The same officer entered again.

"Ms. Johnson, Dr. Miller has completed the transition paperwork and left the building. He wanted me to tell you that Dr. Evans now has full authority over the case."

Michelle nodded. "Thank you."

The officer left, and I felt something hollow open up in my chest. My father had been here, had handled the evidence that could destroy my life, and he hadn't even asked to see me. Twenty-six years of being his daughter, and this was how it ended—me begging for my freedom while he delivered the evidence that could destroy me.

Asking him for help felt like a betrayal to myself, but I was out of options. I was completely falling apart.

The room felt colder somehow, emptier, knowing he had been so close yet treated me like just another case number.