Page 68 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“No, wait—” I drop the handbag and start forward.

Ani steps back, her expression switching seamlessly into exaggerated fear and alarm. “Stay back, Thalia! Don’t move. I’ve called the cops. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m not—Jesus, I didn’t do it.”

“Just stay away from me and my family,” she spits out, backing away, herding her parents away from me. Right before she shuts the door, she flashes me a smile. One that says:Checkmate. And I know, then, that I have well and truly lost.

My bail is denied. My lawyer, provided by the state, warned me before my arraignment that bail would likely be denied since this is a murder case, but when it comes, it still hits hard. Yet another blow I wasn’t ready for. I can only stare silentlyahead as I am led back to my cell, ignoring the shouts from the paparazzi and the flashes of their cameras. Back in the silence of my jail cell, I look into the mirror. Regardless of what Netflix tries to tell you, orange is definitely not the new black. This isn’t an Hermès orange that I’m wearing, but a neon one, against which my skin looks sallow. Despite that, I still look rather beautiful. This is a fact; I’m not being narcissistic. I haven’t had much of an appetite, which is understandable given the disgusting slop they serve in here, and over the past few days, I have lost enough weight to make my cheekbones even more prominent. It gives me a sort of vulnerable, haunted look, which I understand is quite trendy at the moment. I make a note to myself to decrease my caloric intake even after I get out of here.

And make no mistake, I will get out of this place. Jail isn’t for me, much less prison. I do not deserve to be here, locked up with the rest of society’s filthiest dregs. I turn my head to one side, admiring the sharp angles. No, I am made to be seen, not locked away. It would be like keeping theMona Lisaburied. A crime against nature’s art.

I don’t know how I will get out of here yet, though. My lawyer, she of the ill-fitting suit and frizzy hair, tells me that the prosecutor has gathered all sorts of damning evidence against me. The caffeine powder that I had bought for the last two years, charged to Aunt Claudette’s card, a card I have been paying off for years. I suppose that is pretty damning indeed. And, of course, the autopsy results. Rather irrefutable.

The clang of my jail cell rouses me from my plotting. A guard is standing there, somber and burly. I wonder if this is a requirement for prison guards. “You’ve got a visitor.”

I frown. “Is it my lawyer?” Maybe she’s found something after all. Nah. She’s about as smart as a box of hair.

“Nope. Come on, we don’t got all day.”

I resist the urge to correct his grammar and let him cuff me, noting with satisfaction how huge the cuffs are on my slender wrists. We walk toward the visitors room. I wonder who—ugh, I hope it’s not Ani, come to gloat. I might just leap across the desk and shove my thumbs into her eyeballs, just for the satisfaction of wiping that smirk off her face. But when we get there, I see a dark-haired woman sitting across the table. Jane.

My heart softens at the sight of her. What? Just because I have APD, doesn’t mean I can’t feel genuine affection for someone. Okay, yes, it means exactly that. But Jane really does have a special place in my heart. Like a favorite coat, comfortable and worn. And she’s just so pathetic; look at her sitting here even after everything I did to her.

“Jane!” I sit down across from her and shake my head in disbelief. The smile on my face is as genuine a smile as I have ever worn. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She looks surprised by the warm reception and quickly looks down at her hands. “Um. Yeah.” She sneaks another glance at me. Poor Jane. Some people are just built to be prey, and she is the worst of them. She reminds me of a rodent, small and twitchy, made to be hunted and killed with a wet squeak. Still, I’ve been so bored, I find myself looking forward to knowing what brought her here.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, making my voice warm. A verbal hug, because physical contact isn’t allowed. I wonder if it’s time for tears and decide against it. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Are you?” There’s a flash of anger on her face that quickly fizzles out, replaced once more by the anxiety I’d quickly come to associate with her all those years ago.

“What do you mean? Of course I am.”

Her mouth twists. I want to tell her to stop sneering like that; it’s so unbecoming. “Funny you should say that, given how you tried to frame me for Kurt’s death.”

I let my mouth drop open in a shocked O. “What? There must’ve been some kind of—no. Kurt—he died in an accident. What are you saying?” My voice trembles a little. “Please, I can’t stand it, Jane. My husband’s dead and they’re saying I killed him when I didn’t; I had nothing to do with it. Now you’re here, you’re my best friend, the only person in the world who understands me, and you’re saying—what are you saying?” I whisper, blinking so that the tears won’t fall.

She hesitates. Always so quick to be pushed off-balance. “You told everyone I was stalking you.”

I raise my eyebrows.Look at how shocked I am!“No. I would never. I told everyone we’re best friends, that we—” I stop myself and mentally count to three before gasping. “Oh my god. I think I know what’s going on.” I pause, waiting.

And because she is Jane and she can’t help herself, she goes, “What?”

“The cops,” I say. “It’s what they do, right? They get you alone and then they feed you all sorts of crazy stories to make you confide in them. I mean, they told me all sorts of things about you. They wanted me to throw you under the bus, but I didn’t. I told them you’re an amazing person, you’d never do anything like that.” I pause again and look at her with sad puppy eyes. “Did you tell them that I would hurt Kurt?” My voice ends in a pained squeak. Got to drive home to Jane what a fucking betrayal it would’ve been to throw me under like that.

“No,” she cries. “No, I couldn’t—they were so—they saidthat the other writers at the retreat said you told them I was stalking you, and...” She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You killed Ivan.”

“I didn’t,” I say, and here I infuse some indignation into my voice. “I swear to you, I did not kill him.” I don’t break eye contact. I let her in to see my truth.

She blinks again, confused. Poor little rodent Jane. Must I do all the work for her? One despairs. “Ani did,” I say finally, when it becomes clear she’s not going to get there.

“But—” She gnaws on her bottom lip. Her lips are disgusting, all chapped, bits of skin peeling off. I wish she’d put some Vaseline on them. “The—he died of caffeine overdose and you’d been buying all that caffeine—”

“I was being abused.” I let out a single, short sob. An idea is beginning to take form. My mind rushes ahead, spinning a whole new narrative. One that relies on me leaning into the whole Asian stereotype of an overbearing family. The best stories, after all, contain grains of truth. “You don’t know what it was like to be married to Ivan, to be living in his country. I couldn’t turn to anyone. His family controls the police, the whole justice system. I couldn’t divorce him. I was trapped. They told me if I ever humiliated them by divorcing Ivan, they’d kill me and my family—Aunt Claudette—that’s why I hid her existence. I was—you don’t know what I’ve been through.” Now I let the tears fall, though not too much, don’t want to look all puffy. “I was—he raped me every night. I tried telling Ani and she just laughed and told me it was my fault for marrying him.”

Jane looks so horrified I wonder if she’s going to fall off her seat. The more I tell her, the more the story comes alive. And it’s a good one, I can feel it in my bones. I know stories; I’m an author after all. And this one has all the makings of a hit. Me, abeautiful, intelligent, modern woman. This new thinness of mine makes me look so vulnerable, almost ethereal. Ivan, a handsome prince with a dark secret. I dare anyone to try resisting it. I can already see how it’ll take flight. The media will lap it up. Women’s rights groups will clamor for my freedom. I will become the face of their movement, the poor, broken woman who escaped her captor. I will be a heroine.

“You know what Ani’s like. She’d been vying for Ivan’s position in the company even when we were in Oxford. She was always so resentful, so jealous about it. Remember?”

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