SubChapter 10
I didn't tell my mother about the interview until that evening.
She was in the kitchen making dinner, stir-fry with extra vegetables, the kind she made when she wanted to make sure I was eating well. I sat at the counter, watching her move efficiently between cutting board and stove, and tried to find the words.
"Mom?"
"Hmm?" She didn't look up, focused on mincing garlic.
"Detective James wants me to come to the police station tomorrow. For an interview."
The knife stopped mid-chop. She turned slowly, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. "An interview? About what?"
"About Chance. He's been asking questions—trying to piece together what happened that day. He's talking to everyone who knew her."
"But why do you need to go to the station? Why can't he ask you at school like before?" Her voice had an edge now, protective and sharp.
"I think it's just more formal this way. He said to bring you or dad." I kept my voice calm, reasonable. "It's probably routine."
She set down the knife and came around the counter, gripping my shoulders. "Ileh. Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No, Mom. I promise. I barely saw Chance these past few months. We drifted apart." The lie came easily now, worn smooth from repetition. "But I knew her for years, so I guess they think I might know something useful."
She studied my face for a long moment, the way only mothers can—like she was trying to read my soul through my pores. I forced myself not to look away, not to show any of the fear churning in my stomach.
"Okay," she said finally. "I'll come with you. What time?"
"Ten AM."
She nodded and went back to cooking, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands moved a little less steadily than before.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed with my laptop, going through my encrypted notes for the hundredth time. Every detail, every alibi, every potential weak point. I'd prepared for this, had known it might come, but now that it was here, the weight of it pressed down on me like a physical force.
Interview strategy:
Remain calm and cooperative
Stick to established timeline (library, study group)
If pressed about bus footage: maintain Riverside campus visit story
Do NOT volunteer information
If they mention the diary: act confused, curious
If they mention Sarah's email: express surprise, concern for Chance
If they accuse directly: request a lawyer immediately
But what if they had more than I thought? What if there was evidence I hadn't accounted for: DNA under Chance's fingernails, a witness I didn't know about, security footage from a camera I'd missed?
What if this was it?
I pulled up a private browser window and searched: can police arrest you during an interview without evidence
The results were mixed. Technically, they could arrest based on probable cause. But would circumstantial evidence be enough?
I searched again: what happens if you refuse to answer questions without a lawyer
The screen glowed in the darkness as I read through forum posts, legal advice columns, desperate attempts to understand the system that was closing in around me.
At 3 AM, I finally closed the laptop.
My reflection in the darkened screen looked hollow-eyed and gaunt. For a moment, I barely recognized myself.
What had I become?
I pushed the thought away. No time for that now. I needed to focus. Needed to survive tomorrow.
I pulled out a notebook—an actual paper notebook, nothing digital that could be traced—and wrote out my story one more time. Every detail. Every timestamp. Practiced it like lines in a play until the words felt natural, inevitable.
Monday, September 14th.
Left house around 2 PM.
Took bus to Riverside University campus, walked around for an hour.
Grabbed coffee near campus around 3:30.
Walked through Riverside Park.
Caught the 47 bus around 5:47 PM.
Arrived at library around 6:30 PM, soaking wet from the rain.
Studied with Mira until 8 PM.
It had holes. The lack of proof for Riverside, the suspicious timing, the cell tower data. But holes weren't the same as contradictions. As long as I didn't contradict myself, as long as I stayed consistent…
I tore the page out and burned it in my desk trash can, watching the paper curl and blacken.
By the time dawn light crept through my window, I'd made my decision. I would give them nothing.