Chapter 2
It was Ethan.
As soon as he saw me, he rushed over, his face showing the right mix of shock and concern.
"Jessica, what happened? Officers, are you sure you've got the right person?" Ethan tried to grab my hand, but a cop stepped in and stopped him.
I looked at him—the face I'd loved for eight years, the familiar warmth and concern in his eyes—and finally, the knot in my heart loosened.
Luckily, he was still here. As long as he was here, nothing could bring me down.
I forced a smile at him, wanting to tell him I was okay, that this was all a misunderstanding.
But then, I saw a woman in a white dress emerge from behind Ethan.
She was sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, her eyes swollen and red, leaning into Ethan as if she might collapse.
It was Sophie, Ethan's childhood sweetheart, the girl who always clung to him.
She was also the one who never gave up, always trying to force her way into our marriage.
But that couldn't be right. The cops said "assault resulting in death."
A wild, terrifying thought exploded in my mind.
I stared Ethan down, forcing out every word. "Who died?"
Ethan froze, unable to meet my eyes. He dropped his head, struggling to get the words out. "It's Sophie... She... she fell from the roof of your studio."
The harsh fluorescent lights in the interrogation room cast a pale, lifeless glow over everything, making everyone's faces look drained of color.
Across from me sat the same young cop with the square jaw, and next to him was an older officer, scribbling notes at lightning speed.
"Name?" the young cop asked.
"Jessica Reed," I replied.
"Age?"
"Thirty."
"Occupation?"
"Lawyer," I replied, feeling a wave of irony wash over me. I'd spent years defending others, helping them dodge charges—and now, I was the suspect.
"Tell us where you were and what you were doing between three and five this afternoon," the square-jawed cop said, his voice flat and emotionless.
"I was at the office, preparing for our third anniversary celebration tonight.
"I left the office at 5:30 to pick up some pre-ordered gifts from the mall, and got back at 6:30. I didn't leave again until you guys showed up."
"My assistant, my partner, all the staff at the office, and the security cameras in the ballroom can vouch for me," I replied.
My answer was airtight. It was a perfect alibi, with plenty of witnesses and evidence to back it up.
The square-jawed cop glanced up at me.
He said, "We've checked. Sophie Lane's time of death is preliminarily estimated to be around 4:30 PM. And your studio is upstairs from the office, with an elevator inside that goes directly up."
My heart gave a jolt.
Truth was, I'd set up my personal studio in the apartment right above the law firm, so I could pull late nights without leaving the building.
"So what?" I forced myself to keep my cool. "Did anyone see me go upstairs? What about the elevator cameras? Or the ones outside my studio?"
"The elevator cameras were down during that time. And the cameras outside your studio were down too," the cop replied.
That cut off every possible escape route for me.
It was almost too much of a coincidence. It felt like someone planned every detail.
My heart sank a little more with every passing second.
"We found a text message you sent to Sophie on her phone," the square-jawed cop said, sliding a plastic evidence bag across the table to me.
Inside was a pink phone, its screen pulled up to the text message thread.
My name was right there as the sender.
The message was simple: [4 PM, my studio. Let's talk.]
My eyes widened in shock.
I never sent that message.
"I didn't send this!" I shot up from my seat, the handcuffs clanging loudly against the table.
"Jessica, calm down!" the older cop barked. "We'll have the tech team verify if you sent it or not. Right now, I want you to tell me—what exactly was your relationship with the victim?"
I took a deep breath and sat back down, my hands clenched so tightly my knuckles turned white.
"She was... my husband's friend," I replied.
"That's all?" The square-jawed cop's voice was laced with sarcasm. "According to our investigation, Sophie was infatuated with your husband and repeatedly tried to interfere in your marriage.
"Because of that, you two argued often—even got physical, didn't you?"
My lips pressed into a thin line.
Yeah, we'd argued. We'd even gotten physical.
It happened at an art exhibition. Sophie called me out right in front of everyone, saying Ethan was only with me for my money and using my law firm connections.
She claimed Ethan really loved her, and I was nothing but a pathetic substitute.
Right then and there, I splashed a glass of red wine in her face and slapped her hard across the cheek.
It blew up. We became the laughingstock among our peers.
"You were jealous, so you held a grudge. You invited her to your studio, got into an argument, and pushed her from upstairs. That's a pretty convincing motive for murder," the square-jawed cop said slowly, his tone full of certainty.
"I didn't," I nearly shouted. "I didn't kill her. Why would I even waste my time? Someone like her isn't even qualified to be my rival.
"I could make her vanish from my world in a million ways, so why would I choose the stupidest way possible?"
I was a lawyer. And I was the kind of woman who held grudges and always got even.
If Sophie ever really crossed my line, I'd ruin her—bankrupt her, trash her reputation. But I'd never resort to violence, much less something as pathetic and dumb as murder.
That was way beneath me.
"You don't get to decide who's your rival," the square-jawed cop let out a cold laugh. "We found this right at the scene."
He slid another evidence bag across the table.
Inside was a button—it looked ordinary, but I recognized it instantly.
It was from the coat Ethan gave me. Global limited edition, every button hand-polished, totally unique.
And I'd worn that exact coat this afternoon.
My head was spinning. It felt like someone had slammed a hammer into my skull.
The text message, the cameras that were conveniently down, the motive from our argument—and now, there was actual physical evidence.
Every piece of evidence lined up, forming an airtight case that pointed straight at me.
This was a conspiracy, a perfectly orchestrated scheme, seamless and targeting me alone.
Who could hate me this much? Who the hell wanted me destroyed like this?