Chapter 63
63
Two weeks later
Look straight into the camera.”
A pop. Light bursts into my eye and I squint. When I breathe in, my lungs rattle. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive after how much smoke I inhaled. Though their definition of lucky is a bit different from mine. After two weeks of critical care in a Saint Marten infirmary, I was forced into a garish orange jumpsuit that pairs awfully with my tanned skin and hauled onto a plane to be booked for my alleged crimes. As it was explained to me, since the Melniburg island is located in international waters, I am subject to the laws of my and my victims’ home country: America. And if anyone knows anything about the great United States of America, it’s that we love guns, bald eagles, freedom, and have fantastic state-of-the-art penitentiary facilities. Nothing inhumane and unwelcoming about them, at all !
So, no. I don’t feel particularly lucky.
“Turn to your left.”
The metal handcuffs between my wrists clank as I pivot left to face the gray brick wall. I find myself sucking in my cheeks and mewing even though I’m taking a mug shot, not a selfie. But if there’s a chance that this ever gets leaked, I might as well look hot in it.
Another pop of light.
“Now turn to your right.”
Pop. Light.
“All right, Julie, you can head into the next room.”
I jolt at the name Julie .
That’s right. The world knows I stole my twin’s identity and that I’m really Julie Chan. And you would never guess who exposed me.
Iz.
Yep. That Iz.
Isla motherfucking Harris.
After I saved her ass from those psychopaths and prevented her from being a murderer—from being murdered—she ratted on me while I was passed out. She claimed she overheard the girls calling me Julie in some cult ritual, and it didn’t take long for the authorities to piece two and two together.
A part of me wants to be angry at her betrayal. But after all I’ve gone through, the blood on my hands, I’m too resigned to feel any emotion as pointed as anger.
Still, sometimes I think about what might have happened if I had just left Iz in that bungalow.
I’m ushered into a room near the back of the station, where my court-appointed lawyer waits for me. He’s wearing a drab checkered blazer two sizes too big, his hairline resembles McDonald’s Golden Arches, and he keeps clearing his throat into his fist. A pile of yellow manila folders is stacked in front of him. The room smells like stale coffee.
He stands and extends his hand for me to shake. “I’m David, your publicly appointed defense attorney?” His voice is mousy, and all his statements sound like questions.
I take a seat across the table, folding my arms.
He awkwardly drops his hand and sits down. “Okay, so uh, let’s just quickly go over everything you’ve been charged with?” He moves the pile of manila folders in front of him and flips one open. “I’m seeing here… identity fraud, obstruction of justice, theft, arson, eight counts of first-degree murder—”
“Wait.” I uncross my arms, lean forward. Bella Marie, Kelly, Sophia, Lily, Ana, Maya, Emmeline. Seven girls. Seven deaths. “Eight? That can’t be right.”
He glances at his paper. Points to a line. “It says right here, eight counts.”
“It can’t be. I only ki—only seven people died in that fire.”
“Well, I think, um…” He fusses over his stack of papers, pulling out another manila folder. But when he flips it open, he accidentally knocks over his cup of coffee. The black plastic lid pops off and the murky brown contents spill onto the floor. “Oh gosh, oh no.” He bends to clean up his spill before realizing he has nothing to wipe it with. “Uh. Let me get someone to clean this up?” He leaves the room.
I close my eyes and huff a tired sigh, praying that I won’t have to deal with him too long before Fiona finds me a replacement.
Reaching out to an employee with my single phone call was pathetic and embarrassing. The pain of having no one hit me hard that day. I was worried that Fiona would be apprehensive about still working for me, considering that the story about the island massacre had already been blasted across the news. But to my surprise, Fiona picked up the phone with interest. As fate would have it, she’s a true-crime enthusiast. She agreed to continue working for me, as long as she got to tell people she’s employed by the Julie Chan. Assistants to influencers and A-list celebs are a dime a dozen, but an assistant to an alleged mass murderer? Just one! Social clout goes a long way these days.
I stare into the security camera in the corner of the barren room. Its black eye stares back.
I’m left alone for a dreadful length of time and since there’s no clock, I can’t tell exactly how long it’s been. Could be five minutes. Could be thirty. Restless and antsy, I pull the papers out of the manila folder and read all the notes David has scrawled onto them.
Details of my crimes, the events before the fire, and then a list of the seven victims found in ashes. But then, at the very bottom of the page: Defendant is charged with the first-degree murder of her twin, Chloe Van Huusen.
I read the line over and over and over, the words not making sense. First-degree murder of her twin, Chloe Van Huusen. First-degree murder of her twin, Chloe Van Huusen. First-degree murder of her twin, Chloe Van Huusen.
What the fuck ?
My blood boils at the accusation. I’m shaking, the metal handcuffs jingling like Christmas bells. While in the hospital, I’d been planning on pleading guilty. There was no way I’d get away with killing the Belladonnas. I was literally covered in Bella Marie’s blood. But killing Chloe ? No. Fuck that.
I did not kill my twin.
It was all a coincidence—a horrific coincidence.
I need to set this straight. I did not kill Chloe Van Huusen.
When the door finally swings open, I twist toward the entrance, desperate to shout the truth at David.
But the person who strides through the door is no sad sack of a public defender. She’s a tall woman, dressed in a well-fitted navy pantsuit. Her ginger hair is slicked back in a tight, pristine bun. She steps over the puddle of coffee, heels clicking, before clunking her heavy leather briefcase on the metal table.
Before she even introduces herself, she pulls the chair out, sits across from me, and looks me dead in the eyes. “This is how I’m going to get you out of here.”