The police station smells like burnt coffee and disappointment, which is appropriate because I'm currently experiencing both.
Detective Cross has left me in an interrogation room for exactly twenty-three minutes. I know because I've counted every second, which is another fun anxiety thing Dr. Hartley was helping me manage. Was. Past tense. Because he's dead and I might have killed him.
Allegedly.
The plastic thing in my jacket pocket is burning a hole through my consciousness. I haven't looked at it yet because there are cameras in here—three of them, I've counted those too—and I'm not stupid enough to pull out potential evidence while the cops are watching. I'm only stupid enough to apparently murder my therapist with my own podcast microphone and then take a nice long nap to forget about it.
The door opens. Detective Mendez walks in alone, carrying a manila folder that's probably supposed to intimidate me. She sits across from me and doesn't say anything for a solid thirty seconds. It's a power move. I know because I've covered interrogation tactics in episode nineteen of my podcast.
"So," she says finally. "Maya Chen. Twenty-eight. True crime podcaster. Moved to LA three years ago from Sacramento. Currently single after a breakup six months ago with Tyler Morrison."
"Tyler has nothing to do with this."
"Didn't say he did." She flips open the folder. "You've been seeing Dr. Hartley since July. That's eight months of weekly therapy. Must have been getting pretty close."
"It's therapy. You talk to someone for an hour. That's literally the job description."
"What did you talk about?"
I pick at my thumbnail again. Force myself to stop. "That's confidential."
"Not anymore it's not. Dr. Hartley's dead. Therapist-client privilege dies with the therapist." She slides a photo across the table. "This is your podcast microphone. Custom logo. Serial number matches the one registered to your business LLC. We found it in Dr. Hartley's office. It was used to strike him at least seven times."
Seven. That's specific. That's also excessive. That's rage.
I look at the photo and my stomach lurches. The microphone is covered in blood. So much blood.
"I lost that microphone two weeks ago," I say. "I filed a report with my building management. Someone broke into my apartment."
"Yeah, we saw that report. No forced entry though. No signs of a struggle. Just a missing microphone." She leans forward. "Convenient."
"Convenient that someone stole my property and used it to frame me for murder? Yeah. Real convenient for me."
"Where were you Monday between two and six PM?"
"I don't know."
Detective Mendez raises an eyebrow. "You don't know."
"I can't remember Monday. Any of it. I remember Sunday night and then I woke up Tuesday morning and Monday was just... gone."
"That's convenient too."
I hate that word now. Convenient. Like I'm sitting here in a police interrogation room by choice, having the time of my life.
"Look, I know how this sounds," I say. "But I didn't kill Dr. Hartley. I wouldn't. He was helping me."
"Helping you with what?"
I don't answer. Because what am I supposed to say? He was helping me manage my intrusive thoughts about murder? That'll go over great.
Detective Mendez pulls out another photo. This one makes my blood go cold.
It's my notebook. The bad one. The one Tyler found. The one I thought I'd thrown away.
"We found this in Dr. Hartley's office," she says. "Your handwriting, correct?"
I look at the page she's showing me. My handwriting, definitely. But the content—
Session notes - October 14th
Discussed optimal methods for murder. M. described in detail how she would kill someone who betrayed her trust. Blunt force trauma. Repeated strikes. "Make sure they suffer."
M. fixated on the idea that she could get away with it. "I know all the mistakes killers make. I wouldn't make them."
Growing concern about M's inability to distinguish fantasy from reality.
"That's not—" I start, but the words die in my throat because that IS my handwriting. But I never said those things. Did I?
"October 14th was a Monday," Detective Mendez says. "Three months before Dr. Hartley's murder. You spent an entire session telling him how you'd kill someone."
"Those were intrusive thoughts. That's why I was IN therapy."
"And yesterday—Monday, the day you conveniently can't remember—you had an appointment with Dr. Hartley at three PM. Security footage shows you entering the building at 2:47 PM." She slides across another photo. It's me, definitely me, walking into the Riverside Professional Building. I'm wearing the jacket I have on now. "You were the last person to see him alive."
My mouth is dry. "I need a lawyer."
"You keep saying that. But here's the thing, Maya. Lawyers are expensive. And you're going to need a really good one because the evidence against you is pretty damning." She taps the photos. "Your weapon. Your notebook. Your presence at the scene. And here's the kicker—your fingerprints are all over his office. On the desk. On the lamp. On the phone he used to call 911."
"He called 911?"
"Fifteen minutes after you arrived. Never said a word. Line went dead after seven seconds. Responding officers found him thirty minutes later." She leans back, studying me. "So either you killed him and he managed to call for help before he died, or you killed him and staged it to look like he called for help."
"Or I didn't kill him at all."
"Then where were you Monday afternoon?"
"I. Don't. Know." My voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. "I'm telling you the truth. I can't remember."
The door opens. Detective Cross walks in, holding a coffee cup and my phone in an evidence bag.
"Interesting development," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my skin prickle. "We pulled her phone records. Monday afternoon at 3:17 PM, Maya received a text from Dr. Hartley's phone."
He shows me the screen. My phone. My messages. And there it is:
We need to talk about what you told me. Meet me at my office. Come alone. Don't tell anyone. -LH
I've never seen that message before in my life.
"I didn't—I don't remember getting that."
"You responded," Detective Cross says. He scrolls up. "At 3:19 PM. You said, 'On my way.'"
The room is spinning now. Actually spinning. I grip the edge of the table.
"You texted him back," Detective Mendez says slowly, like she's explaining something to a child. "You went to his office. You were alone with him. And now he's dead. With your microphone. And your fingerprints. And a notebook full of murder fantasies."
"Those weren't fantasies—"
"Then what were they?"
I can't answer because I don't know anymore. Were they just intrusive thoughts? Or was some part of me actually planning this? Planning to kill the one person who was helping me?
No. No. That's insane.
But insanity runs in my family. My mom's sister, Aunt Julie, spent fifteen years in a psychiatric facility after she tried to stab her husband with a letter opener because she was convinced he was replaced by an alien. She swore she could tell the difference. She swore the real Gary would never put the toilet paper roll on backwards.
They found Gary's body three weeks later. He'd been dead for a month. Aunt Julie had been living with his corpse, having conversations with him, making him dinner.
She still insists the body wasn't the real Gary.
"I want a lawyer," I say again. Firmer this time. "I'm not saying anything else without a lawyer."
Detective Mendez sighs like I'm being unreasonable. "Fine. But here's what's going to happen. We're going to hold you for questioning. We're going to search your apartment. And we're going to build a case that's going to put you away for a very long time."
"Unless," Detective Cross says. He sits down next to his partner. "You tell us what happened. Tell us why you did it. Was it the intrusive thoughts? Did they get too loud? Did Dr. Hartley say something that set you off?"
He has kind eyes. That's the worst part. He looks like he actually wants to understand.
"We've all had dark thoughts," he continues. "The difference is most people don't act on them. But you spend all day, every day, thinking about murder. Talking about murder. Making a living off murder. Maybe the line between thinking about it and doing it got a little blurry."
"No." My voice sounds far away. "No, I didn't kill him."
"Then help us understand what happened Monday."
"I can't."
Detective Mendez stands up. "Then we're done here. You'll be transferred to county jail pending arraignment. I hope your podcast makes enough money for a good defense attorney, because you're going to need one."
They leave. Both of them. The door clicks shut and I'm alone with three cameras and a pocket full of secrets.
I wait thirty seconds. Count them. Then I slide my hand into my jacket pocket.
The plastic thing is a flash drive. Small. Black. No label.
There's a sticky note wrapped around it. My handwriting. But I don't remember writing it.
Watch this before you trust anyone. Even yourself. -Monday Maya
My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop it.
Monday Maya. I left myself a message. Which means some part of me knew I was going to forget. Which means I planned to forget.
Which means I might have also planned to kill Dr. Hartley.
Or—and this is the thought that's really terrifying—someone wanted me to think I did.
The door opens again. A uniformed officer. "Let's go, Ms. Chen. Processing."
I slip the flash drive back into my pocket and stand up. As they lead me down the hallway toward booking, I catch sight of someone watching from an office doorway.
Detective Cross.
And he's looking at my jacket pocket like he knows exactly what's in there.