Imani shows up Wednesday morning looking like she hasn't slept since Monday, which makes two of us. Her box braids are pulled back in a messy bun, she's wearing the same Tame Impala shirt she had on last weekend, and there are actual tears in her eyes when she sees me through the plexiglass.
"Don't," I say into the phone receiver before she can start. "If you cry, I'll cry, and I've already cried twice today and it's only nine AM."
She laughs, but it's watery. "You look like shit."
"Orange really isn't my color. I'm more of an autumn."
"Maya—"
"Small talk," I remind her. "Rebecca said we can't discuss the case. They're probably recording this."
Imani glances at the guard standing near the door, then back at me. "Right. Okay. Small talk. Um. The podcast is blowing up."
"Blowing up good or blowing up bad?"
"Both? We've gotten like fifty thousand new subscribers since Monday. Everyone wants to know if you actually did it. True crime Twitter is having a field day. There's already a hashtag. #MicrophoneMurderer."
I drop my head into my hands. "Oh god."
"Some people are defending you. Saying it's a frame job. There's this whole conspiracy theory that Dr. Hartley was a serial killer and you found out and he tried to silence you but you got to him first."
"That's insane. Dr. Hartley wasn't a serial killer. He was just a guy who wore sweater vests and said 'how does that make you feel' for a living."
"I know that. You know that. But the internet doesn't care about facts when fiction is more interesting." She leans closer to the glass. "Tyler called me."
My stomach clenches. "What did he want?"
"To know if you actually did it. I told him to go to hell." She pauses. "He said he wasn't surprised. That you'd been getting worse before you two broke up. That he tried to get you help but you refused."
"That's not what happened."
"I know. But he's doing interviews. TMZ. Access Hollywood. Playing the 'my ex-girlfriend is a murderer' angle for sympathy." Her jaw tightens. "He's making it sound like you were this ticking time bomb and he was the hero who tried to save you."
"Of course he is." Tyler always did have a gift for rewriting history. When he left, he told everyone it was mutual. That we'd grown apart. He left out the part where he read my private notebook and called me a psychopath. "Let him talk. I have bigger problems."
"Like the fact that you can't remember Monday?"
I glance at the guard. He's scrolling on his phone, not paying attention. "Yeah. That."
"What's the last thing you do remember?"
"Sunday night. Editing episode forty-seven. The Whitmore case."
Imani's expression shifts. "You finished that edit?"
"Yeah. Sent it to you around eleven PM. Why?"
"Maya, you never sent me that episode. I've been checking our shared drive all week. It's not there."
The room tilts slightly. "What do you mean it's not there? I remember uploading it. I remember—" I stop. Because now that I'm really thinking about it, do I remember uploading it? Or do I just remember intending to upload it?
"Someone deleted it," Imani says quietly. "Or you never uploaded it in the first place."
"Why wouldn't I upload it?"
"I don't know. But here's what's really weird. Monday morning, I got an email from you. From your personal Gmail, not the podcast account. It said 'If anything happens to me, check Dr. Hartley's files. He's been lying.'"
My hands go numb. "I didn't send that."
"The metadata says you did. Monday at 2:13 AM."
Two in the morning. That's fourteen hours before I supposedly walked into Dr. Hartley's office. Fourteen hours before my memory goes black.
"What did you do?" I ask.
"I tried to call you. You didn't answer. I thought maybe you were drunk-emailing or something. You've done it before." She looks guilty now. "I didn't think it was serious until the police showed up asking where you were."
"Did you tell them about the email?"
"No. I didn't think—I mean, it makes you look guilty, doesn't it? Like you were planning something." Her eyes widen. "Should I have told them? Is that evidence that could help you?"
I don't know. Because if Monday Maya sent that email, then Monday Maya knew something was wrong with Dr. Hartley. Which means either I discovered something about him that got him killed, or I was planning to kill him and trying to justify it.
"Do you still have the email?" I ask.
"Yeah. I forwarded it to myself."
"Send it to Rebecca. My lawyer. Don't show it to the police unless she says it's okay." I lean closer to the glass. "Imani, I need you to do something for me. And you can't ask questions."
"Maya—"
"Please. This is important. There's a flash drive. It should be in my jacket pocket. The leather one I wore Monday. The police took it during processing but they might not have found it. I need you to get Rebecca to retrieve it and watch whatever's on it."
"What's on it?"
"I don't know. But Monday Maya left it for me. With a note that said to watch it before trusting anyone. Including myself."
Imani stares at me. "That's some serial killer shit, Maya."
"I know. But if I left myself that message, there must be a reason. Maybe I saw something. Maybe I recorded something. Maybe—" I stop because the guard is looking over now, paying attention. I lower my voice. "Just tell Rebecca, okay?"
"Okay. But Maya, listen to me. Whatever happened Monday, whatever you did or didn't do—I know you. And I know you didn't murder anyone."
"How do you know that?"
"Because you can't even kill spiders. You relocate them to the balcony with a cup and a piece of paper. You cried when we covered the Zodiac case because you felt bad for the victims' families. You're not a killer."
I want to believe her. But the thing about intrusive thoughts is that they're intrusive for a reason. They show you the darkest parts of yourself. The parts you don't want to acknowledge.
What if Monday Maya discovered that those dark parts aren't just thoughts?
"Time's up," the guard calls.
"Wait—" Imani presses her hand against the glass. "We're going to figure this out. I'm going to help Rebecca. We're going to get you out of here."
"Imani." I put my hand against the glass opposite hers. "If that flash drive shows something bad—if it shows me doing something I shouldn't have—promise me you'll delete it."
"Maya, I can't—"
"Promise me. I need to know that someone has my back even if I don't deserve it."
Her eyes fill with tears again. "You always deserve it. And yes. I promise."
The guard escorts her out. I'm led back to my cell, where Destiny is braiding another inmate's hair through the bars.
"Fifty bucks," she's saying. "And I'll make you look like Beyoncé."
"I don't have fifty bucks."
"Then you're gonna look like regular Becky." She glances at me as I climb onto my bunk. "How was your visit? Your girl bring good news?"
"Not really."
"That's jail for you. Bad news and worse food." She finishes a braid and moves to the next section. "You want me to do your hair? Make you look presentable for arraignment? Only cost you forty since you're my cellmate."
"I don't have forty dollars either."
"Then I guess you're showing up to court looking like a guilty murderer instead of an innocent one." She grins. "Jury's gonna take one look at that bed head and vote to convict."
She's joking, but she's also kind of right. Appearance matters in court. I've covered enough trials to know that. The pretty defendant gets sympathy. The messy one gets judged.
"Tell you what," Destiny says. "You give me something else. Information. Entertainment. Something good. And I'll do your hair for free."
"Like what?"
"Like the truth. Did you really kill your therapist with a microphone? Because that's iconic. That's the kind of story I can tell my kids someday. 'Your mama did time with the Microphone Murderer.'"
I should say no. I should follow Rebecca's advice and not talk to anyone.
But I'm tired. I'm scared. And some part of me needs to say this out loud to someone who doesn't have a stake in whether I'm guilty or innocent.
"I don't think I killed him," I say quietly. "But I can't remember. And that's worse than knowing for sure. Because if I did it and I can't remember, then what else am I capable of forgetting?"
Destiny stops braiding. She looks up at me, and for the first time since I met her, she's not smiling.
"You really don't remember Monday?"
"No."
"Not any of it?"
"Nothing. It's just... blank. Like someone took an eraser to my brain and deleted twenty-four hours."
She turns back to her client's hair, but her movements are slower now. Thoughtful. "My cousin—the one who works in laundry—she's got a friend who works at a pharmacy. This friend told her about this drug. Rohypnol, but a newer version. Stronger. It makes you forget things. Makes you do things you wouldn't normally do. And then after, you don't remember any of it."
My heart starts racing. "A date rape drug."
"Among other things. Could be used for all kinds of stuff. Making someone compliant. Making them forget. Making them seem guilty of something they didn't do." She meets my eyes. "If someone wanted to frame you for murder, that'd be a pretty good way to do it, wouldn't it? Drug you, take you to the scene, make you touch everything. Let you wake up with no memory and all the evidence pointing at you."
It makes sense. It makes horrible, terrible sense.
"How would I prove it?" I ask. "They didn't test me for drugs. By the time I woke up Tuesday morning, it would've been out of my system."
"Maybe. Or maybe you still have traces in your hair. Hair holds onto that shit for months." She finishes the braid and ties it off. "You should tell your fancy lawyer to test your hair. Might be your only shot at proving you were drugged."
I lie back on my bunk, staring at the Florida-shaped gun stain on the ceiling.
Hair test. Flash drive. The deleted podcast episode. The two AM email.
Monday Maya was trying to leave me clues. But what was she trying to tell me?
That Dr. Hartley was lying? About what?
That someone was coming after me? Who?
That I was in danger? Or that I was dangerous?
"Hey," Destiny calls up. "You want that free hairdo or not?"
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I do."
Because she's right. If I'm going to convince a jury I'm innocent, I need to look the part.
Even if I'm not sure I believe it myself.