Chapter 4 So You'll Help Me?

Jane's POV

Michelle looked at me with cold, unwavering eyes and said, "Your story doesn't hold up. All the evidence points to you."

I let out a bitter laugh, feeling myself falling apart as I said, "I really was asleep... I swear I'm not a killer. I'm not a murderer."

She stared at me and said flatly, "Stop the pointless resistance."

"I want to invoke my Miranda rights," I said desperately.

"I want a lawyer. It really wasn't me. I'm not a killer."

She nodded curtly. "Fine."

I sat in that interrogation room, waiting... and waiting. Time seemed to stretch endlessly. Minutes felt like hours.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sounds of the police station.

I kept replaying everything in my head, over and over. How did I end up here? How did everything go so wrong?

It felt like an eternity had passed when finally, the door opened and a man walked in.

He was devastatingly handsome - tall, broad-shouldered, with that perfect combination of dark hair and blue eyes that made him look like he had stepped off a movie set. Seriously, Henry Cavill vibes.

I mentally slapped myself. Really? REALLY? I was sitting there accused of murder, my life was literally falling apart, and my brain decided THAT was the time to appreciate male beauty?

What good was a pretty face when I was facing life in prison?

Priorities, girl. PRIORITIES.

He studied me for a long time, his blue eyes examining my face as if trying to read something hidden beneath the surface. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Miss Miller. I am David Reynolds, your lawyer," he finally said, his voice carefully neutral. "I've reviewed your case file. The evidence against you is... substantial."

My heart sank. Even my own lawyer was already convinced I was guilty.

"But that doesn't mean—" I started.

"No, let me be clear about what we're dealing with here." He opened the file folder, spreading several documents across the metal table. "The prosecution has your detailed story outline describing the exact murder method. They have the murder weapon with your fingerprints on it. They have DNA evidence placing you at the scene."

Each word felt like a physical blow. "I didn't kill him!"

I stared at the papers spread before me, official seals and typed reports that seemed to seal my fate.

David leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "The prosecutor has offered a plea deal. Manslaughter instead of first-degree murder. Ten to twenty years instead of life without parole. Given the strength of their evidence, that's actually quite generous."

"Ten to twenty years." The number felt surreal, impossible. "I'd be thirty-six to forty-six when I got out. If I got out."

"Miss Miller, I've been a public defender for six years. I've seen cases with far less evidence result in convictions." He gathered the papers back into a neat stack. "If we reject this offer and go to trial, you're facing first-degree murder charges. That's life without parole. The prosecutor offered this deal because even they know twenty years is a long time, but they're confident they can get a conviction on the murder charge if we push this to trial."

Something cold settled in my stomach. "You think I did it too."

"What I think doesn't matter. What matters is what twelve jurors will think when they see this evidence." He closed the file with a decisive snap. "And frankly, Miss Miller, I don't see any reasonable doubt here."

The words hit me like ice water. My last hope, my only advocate in this nightmare, was telling me to surrender.

I cried out, "So that's it?"

"I'm trying to save what's left of it." David stood up, straightening his tie. "Take the plea deal. Serve your time. You're young—you'll have a life when you get out."

When I get out. As if it was already decided. As if I was already guilty.

"I didn't kill Michael Washington." The words felt hollow now, repeated so many times to so many people who didn't believe me.

"Then prove it." He picked up his briefcase, the motion sharp and final.

Panic rose in my throat as I watched him prepare to leave. Everyone was abandoning me. My father had walked away without a backward glance. The police saw me as a solved case. The prosecutor wanted to use me as a career-building conviction. And now my own lawyer was giving up before we'd even started fighting.

"Wait!" The word burst out of me, desperate and raw. "Please, you can't just leave!"

David paused, his hand on the door handle. "Miss Miller, I'll be back tomorrow to discuss the plea options in detail. Think about what I've said."

"No, you don't understand!" Tears started flowing down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable. "I don't have anyone else! You're literally the only person standing between me and life in prison for something I didn't do!"

"Miss Miller—"

"Please!" My voice broke completely. "I know how the evidence looks, I know it seems impossible, but I'm telling you the truth. Someone framed me. Someone killed Michael and made it look like I did it."

David turned around slowly, something shifting in his expression. For the first time, he really looked at me—not as a case file or a lost cause, but as a person.

"I have no family, no friends, no money for a real lawyer." The words tumbled out between sobs. "My own father thinks I'm guilty. The cops think I'm guilty. The whole world thinks I'm guilty. You're the only one who can help me, and if you give up too..."

I couldn't finish the sentence. The weight of complete isolation pressed down on me, crushing and absolute.

"I write stories about murder, but I've never even been in a real fight," I continued, my voice shaking. "I cry when I see dead animals on the road. I couldn't hurt a spider, let alone stab someone seven times. But none of that matters because the evidence says I'm a killer."

David set his briefcase down slowly, his professional mask slipping slightly. "Miss Miller..."

"Jane," I whispered. "My name is Jane. And I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm innocent, and I'm so scared I can barely breathe."

The room fell silent except for the fluorescent lights humming overhead and my ragged breathing. David stood frozen by the door, conflict playing across his features.

"Please," I said one more time, my voice barely audible. "I know you don't owe me anything. I know the odds are against us. But please don't give up on me. Please don't let them win without a fight."

For a long moment, David just stared at me. His blue eyes seemed to be weighing something, calculating odds I couldn't see.

"The evidence really is overwhelming," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Any reasonable person would conclude you're guilty."

"I know that too."

"If we go to trial and lose, you'll get life without parole. The plea deal might be your only chance at ever being free again."

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "And if I take the plea deal, I spend the next twenty years in prison for something I didn't do. Either way, my life is over."

David was quiet for a long time, his gaze moving between me and the case file. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

"There's something you need to understand about public defenders," he said, walking back to the table. "We're overworked, underfunded, and we lose most of our cases. The system expects us to process defendants through plea deals, not fight impossible battles."

My heart sank again.

"But," he continued, sitting back down, "sometimes an impossible case is the only one worth fighting."

Hope flickered in my chest, fragile as a candle flame.

"I'm not promising anything," David said firmly. "The evidence against you is still overwhelming. The odds are still terrible. But if you're telling the truth—if someone really did frame you—then they made a mistake somewhere. They always do."

"So you'll help me?"