I have never hated anyone more than I hated Hank Wilcox.

            But my father was a very, very close second.

            I took sides in the divorce, like I think most kids do. I sided with my mother, even if she was just as manipulative as he was. She was just nicer to us, growing up. My father couldn't have been bothered to remember my middle name, let alone care about my wellbeing.

            But it became more than that.

            It was as if, when my parents separated, I could see my father with much more clarity than I had ever been able to while living under 'his roof.' The frost had melted from the window I saw my father through, and what had once been a blurry outline of a not-so-great person became a sharp, clear image of a terrible man.

            Wealth is the most bizarre thing. It turns people into machines. Heartless. Emotionless. Feelingless. Kristopher Abrams was one of the best-oiled machines in the business.

            He married a young model who was wealthy in her own right. I never understood why she married him if she didn't need his money. I also didn't stop to consider the possibility that she would, at a later date, set me up for killing her high school sweetheart.

            My apologies. I'm making everything about me.

            Let's continue, shall we?

            It's still about me, though.

><><><

            "I will not be speaking with you."

            Her father didn't seem the least bit miffed by Kennedy's response to his greeting. Instead, he sat down across from her. His wife followed close behind.

            "You," Kennedy growled as her stepmother took a seat, "I cannot believe you betrayed us."

            Lydia raised an eyebrow.

            "I was in a state of shock while in the hotel. I came to my senses a few days later."

            Kennedy's gaze shot to her father, forgetting her promise of a few seconds earlier to not speak with him.

            "So, you know? You know she's the one who did this?"

            Kristopher sighed—the kind of sigh that a parent made when their children were bickering.

            Disgusting.

            "Lydia told me what unfolded on that night. I'm deeply sorry that Jaxson had to die, but I understand why she needed to do what she did."

            Kennedy waited for him to say more, but he declined.

            "You understand why she needed to do what she did? Do you also understand how she rationalized framing your daughter for it?"

            "This is a complicated situation, Kennedy." Lydia leaned forward and Kennedy noticed her long, stiletto-shaped red fingernails. While Kennedy had been trying to figure out how she was going to prove her innocence, Lydia had been out getting a manicure. "Your father is trying to do what's best for the family."

            "Don't say 'the family' as if you somehow have a part in it." Kennedy muttered. Lydia didn't seem put off by her stepdaughter's tone; she sat back in her seat and focused her gaze on a point somewhere above Kennedy's head. Silent.

            "I can have one of my lawyers fly down here to defend you." Kristopher said, "He's the best of the best—"

            "You cannot be serious." Kennedy interrupted. Her eyes locked with her father's, "You're offering to hire me a new lawyer? Who can defend me in a crime that your wife committed? This is the most insane, soap-opera-level shit that I think you've ever pulled."

            "I'm trying to help you here, Kennedy. I'm not going to turn in my wife."

            "Then we have nothing else to talk about." Kennedy snapped, turning her eyes to find one of the guards standing by the wall, too far out of earshot to hear anything short of yelling, "Excuse me! Excuse me!" She shouted until he looked over at her, "I'd like to go back to my cell, please."

            The guard nodded and walked towards her. Kristopher and Lydia were speaking as the guard helped Kennedy up, but she ignored them. They may have still been talking as she was led out of the room, but Kennedy didn't notice. She tuned them out completely, not listening to a single sound besides her own heartbeat until she was sitting back on her cot, facing the bare grey wall, resisting the urge to bang her head against the concrete behind her until she passed out.

><><><

            Rebecca showed up with Brianne the next day. Neither of them looked like they had gotten a single second of sleep the previous night. The bags under Rebecca's eyes rivaled the color of Kennedy's cell walls, while Brianne was halfway through her second venti iced chai. Iced. In December. December 24th, to be exact. Christmas Eve. In prison.

            Silence permeated the space between them for the first ninety seconds that all three women sat around the little metal table. Rebecca's eyes were glued to the handcuffs attaching Kennedy to the table, but Kennedy was far more interested in what Rebecca looked like. The two girls had just seen each other the day before, but between those two days, it looked as if Rebecca Eaves had aged five years. Her eyes were bloodshot and sunken. Her hair was pulled into two braids on either side of her face, but both of them had hairs sticking out every which way. Two new zits had emerged since the day before—one in the middle of her chin and one on her left cheek. Her skin was paler than usual, and her hands trembled just the slightest bit when she held her phone.

            Kennedy was the one sitting in a jail cell for the foreseeable future, and she still looked better than the pile of off-brand Nike athleisure sitting in front of her.

            Stop being a dick. She's not used to this.

            "My parents paid my bail." Rebecca broke the silence.

            "That's good." Kennedy replied.

            Brianne and Rebecca exchanged a look. Kennedy swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

            "Kennedy," Hotchky started, "I apologize for not getting your bail set. And I apologize in advance for the direction this conversation is going to go."

            Don't cry. Do not cry.

            "It may take more time than we were anticipating, getting your trial date set. It may also take a bit more effort to prove your innocence in this trial than the last one."

            Kennedy raised her eyebrows.

            "I committed the last crime. I didn't commit this one. You're telling me that it's going to be harder when I didn't do anything wrong?"

            "Well, you covered up the crime scene." Brianne said. Her tone was gentle, not accusatory, "The only evidence is the snippet of security footage that was leaked. I'm going to try and get it thrown out, but there is no guarantee that that's going to work. If the state is allowed to use the footage in court, we have a very steep uphill battle. For both of you."

            Kennedy glanced at Rebecca.

            "Then why's Rebecca looking at me with pity?"

            "Well..." Brianne trailed off, her eyes refusing to meet Kennedy's, "...this is Rebecca's first offense. Your first trial was highly publicized, and we made no secret of the fact that you did kill Wilcox. We simply argued that you didn't intend to. The jury and judge, most likely, already have it in their heads that you are capable of killing someone." She paused, her eyes at last rising to meet her client's, "The state is going to again charge you with murder with express malice. If you're found guilty, you face a minimum of 30 years in prison. Rebecca will most likely be charged with involuntary manslaughter and be made to look like your accomplice. It's the easiest narrative because it's the same narrative they used in the initial trial."

            Deep down somewhere, Kennedy had already known that.

The three spoke some more. Rebecca apologized despite it not technically being her fault—although she had been the one to call Kennedy and get her involved at all. It remained Lydia's fault, though—she had done something irreversible without thinking, and then needlessly betrayed both girls who had come to her aid by releasing a security tape that could have been erased permanently.

            When Kennedy was back in her cell that night, she laid on her back, the cot uncomfortable and lumpy beneath her weight. December 24th. Not even three months since she had made the decision that changed the trajectory of her entire life.

            The longer Kennedy had been able to ruminate on it, the more she was beginning to think that killing Hank had been a conscious decision on her part. She didn't think that she had planned it before she stepped foot in Rebecca's shitty Toyota Prius. But she remembered seeing Hank for a split second before she hit him. It was enough time to swerve the other way. It was no longer than a split second, but it was enough time to change the route of the car.

            A split second, and she made the decision to eliminate the possibility of Hank ever finding her again. It wasn't a decision she realized had been a decision until months later. But it had been a decision, a split second, that altered everything that followed in her life. It altered her relationship with Rebecca. It altered her relationship with her family. It altered her freedom. It altered, potentially, the next 30 years of her life.

            There was a spot on her ceiling. Small and black, probably mold.

            That's me. That's me in the sea of everyone else in this jail.

            A small spot.

            As if the cot had shot her from it, Kennedy sat straight up, staring through the bars of her cell and into the darkness of the hallway in front of it.

            A small spot. A small spot wouldn't be missed in the long run.

            Perhaps that split-second decision had been the most important one she had made thus far in her entire 21 years of life.

            But this split-second decision, sitting in her dark jail cell with no one around to help her, was a very, very close second.