Chapter 6: Another Round of Questioning
The first time they pulled me in for another round of questioning, I thought it would be quick like the other one.Five minutes. Ten at most.
Instead, I sat under the humming fluorescent light of the administration office for nearly an hour, sweat sticking to the back of my neck despite the air-conditioning.
Detective Harris-the same one who had questioned me the day the body was found, yeah, he later deemed me worthy of knowing his name-sat across from me, his notebook open, his pen tapping against the table like a ticking clock. His gaze never wavered, sharp and invasive, as if he could peel back layers of skin until he found something ugly beneath.
News flash, if you peeled the layers of the skin you'd only get blood vessels and more blood and yeah, something ugly cause that sight isn't pretty.
"Let's go over this again, Miss Marquez," he said, voice calm but with a bite. "You didn't invite Rose Whitaker to your dormitory?"
"No." My answer was clipped. I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I already told you, we weren't friends. We barely spoke."
"Barely." His pen stilled. "But you were rivals."
"Yes. Academically."
He leaned forward slightly. "And rivals sometimes… become dangerous to each other. Especially when recognition and opportunities are at stake."
My stomach tightened. "I didn't hurt her."
Silence. Then, his tone shifted, deliberately casual. "Were you and Rose lovers?"
The question punched the air out of my lungs. "Excuse me?"
Where the hell was this coming from?
He tilted his head, unfazed. "Teenagers your age can be… experimental. Sometimes it looks like rivalry on the outside, but behind closed doors, it's something else. Pretending to hate each other, sneaking around, it happens more often than you think."
I'm eighteen, I'm hardly still considered a teenager but okay.
Heat flushed through me, not from embarrassment, but from anger because what the actual hell was this man doing right now? "That's not what this was. I wasn't sneaking around with her. We weren't… we weren't anything like that."
"Then you won't mind answering directly," he pressed. "Were you lovers?"
"No!" The word cracked out sharper than I meant, echoing against the walls. I dragged in a breath, trying to steady myself. "I have a boyfriend."
"Mateo right?," he said smoothly, jotting the name down. "And he's back on campus, isn't he?"
"Yes."
Harris leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen again, eyes narrowing in mock thoughtfulness. "So you're conservative, then?"
The question made me blink. "Conservative? What do you mean?"
I did not understand where he was taking this line of questioning.
His lips curled slightly. "I mean, if you weren't with Rose openly, maybe she was just a sidepiece. You teenagers have your relationships, but you keep secrets. Maybe she wanted to tell Mateo. Maybe she threatened to expose you. And in the heat of the moment…" His voice dropped. "…you snapped."
My hands curled into fists in my lap. "That's disgusting."
"Answer the question."
"There is no question to answer," I shot back, every word clipped. "I didn't kill her, and I wasn't sleeping with her. I didn't even like her. And not because of… whatever you're insinuating. We were rivals, not… not that."
Harris scribbled something, his expression unreadable. The sound of the pen scratching paper was unbearable, like claws dragging across glass.
I dug my nails into my palms under the table, forcing myself to stay still, to stay composed, even as irritation burned through me. I wanted to scream at him, to flip the damn table over and storm out, but I couldn't. Because that was what he wanted.
Finally, he closed the notebook. "That's all for now. But don't leave campus, Miss Marquez. We may need to speak with you again."
"I wasn't going to leave anyway, school just started." I told him.
"And yet someone is dead." He replied with a smirk. "We can't have our main suspect running away now can we?"
Is it appropriate to tell a detective to go fuck himself? No? Okay then, I'll try to control my anger.
I didn't give him a reply. I stood up and walked outside. By the time I stepped into the hallway, Mateo was waiting, arms crossed, pacing the floor. His head snapped up the second he saw me.
"What did they say?"
"Nothing important. They just asked some questions." I told him.
His jaw clenched. "Oh okay, the cops know what they are doing, they will get to the bottom of this." He assured me.
I didn't answer. Because deep down, I feared he was wrong. Detective Harris seemed like he was all too glad to pin this on me but I wasn't going to let him. It will come as a shock to him when he finds out I'm innocent, I'm sure of it.
By Monday morning, the whispers had increased and taken a new turn because contrary to what I thought, the cops had still not found the victim.
I'm sure she's guilty.
I heard Rose's brother curse her out. He said she was always jealous of Rose.
Wasn't it obvious that she was jealous of Rose?
I'm sure she killed her. She has a motive.
Everywhere I went, I felt them. The eyes followed me everywhere. In the dining hall, in the library stacks, even in the chapel during morning prayers. When I raised my head, conversations would falter. People leaned in close to each other, their gazes darting toward me, their mouths curving with half-smiles that weren't smiles at all.
And worst of all, some of the teachers looked at me differently now. Not openly, not cruelly, but with hesitation. As if calling on me in class might endorse me, might taint their reputations if I really was guilty.
I held my chin high anyway, my father's lessons pounding in my head. Never let them see you break. But each step I took felt like I was sinking. And what were the cops doing? What was that detective doing? Surely it can't be that hard to find who killed Rose right?
By lunchtime, I was exhausted. Yvette tried to distract me with chatter about her upcoming fashion competition, while Clara slipped me extra fries like food might magically cure despair. But their eyes kept flicking to me, worry shadowing every smile.
Mateo, on the other hand, was fire. He glared at anyone who looked at me too long. When one boy muttered murderer under his breath as he passed, Mateo nearly leapt from his chair, only stopping when I caught his sleeve.
"Don't," I hissed. "Please."
"They can't talk to you like that."
"They will," I whispered back. "No matter what you do."
His frustration simmered all through lunch, his knuckles white around his fork.
And then Alexander appeared.
Of course he did. He always did.
He sauntered into the cafeteria like he owned it, blue tie loose, blazer slung carelessly over his shoulder. His eyes scanned the room, sharp and calculating, until they landed on me. A smirk tugged at his lips, lazy but deliberate.
Mateo noticed immediately. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightening. "What's his problem?"
I followed his gaze. Alex was leaning against a pillar, talking casually with some friends, but his eyes flicked toward me every few seconds, glinting with something unreadable.
"He doesn't have a problem," I muttered. "He is the problem."
Mateo bristled. "I don't like the way he looks at you."
"Join the club," I said, stabbing a fry I didn't want.
But the truth was, Alexander's gaze wasn't the same as the others. It wasn't accusing. It wasn't mocking. It was…watching. Waiting.
And that terrified me in a completely different way.
That evening, I found a note shoved into my locker.
No envelope. No name. Just a single sheet of lined paper, folded in half.
I hesitated before opening it, scanning the hallway to make sure no one was watching. Yvette and Clara had gone ahead to the library, and Mateo was waiting outside, impatient as ever. Alone, I unfolded the note with trembling fingers.
Four words. That was all it said.
I know the truth.
My heart stopped.
The paper slipped from my hands, fluttering to the floor like a dead leaf. My breath hitched, chest seizing, vision blurring at the edges.
Someone knew.
But knew what? That I didn't do it? Or that I did?
My hands shook as I crumpled the note and shoved it deep into my pocket, my brain spiraling with possibilities. Who wrote it? Rose's brother, George? A teacher? A classmate who'd seen something? Or worse…was it the killer?