Martina’s mentions are exploding with tags in strangers’ opinion pieces and hot takes and theories. Anna Cicconi has been incarcerated for six weeks, and the interview with Martina is the first she’s given. She’s had a few days to process it, but now it’s really hitting: Martina got an exclusive with Zoe’s confessed killer. And that interview is changing the way people are thinking about Anna, thinking about the case. She’s innocent at best, a calculating liar at worst. Perhaps much worse than the accidental killer she confessed to being.
The interview is inviting acclaim and vitriol in equal measure, which people feel the need to express to Martina directly. In addition to her Twitter feed, people are finding their way into her inbox, her DMs, her texts. Mostly, she’s been ignoring them. Well, reading, but not responding. It’s not like she could write back even if she wanted to; until three fifteen, she’s trapped inside Jefferson. But this latest text is harder to ignore. Because it’s from Anna’s friend Kaylee. Before she can think of an appropriate response, the texts start up again.
What the hell were you thinking? Her lawyers are flipping the fuck out. Her mom too.
Anna’s still not telling the truth about NYE. WE WERE NEVER IN HERRON MILLS. WE’VE NEVER MET ZOE.
Get that through your head. This interview isn’t helping.
Martina takes a deep breath and zips her backpack all the way closed before she gets caught. What was she thinking? She was thinking that Anna hasn’t gotten a voice, not since the police took that half-assed confession filled with “I must haves” and “maybes” and “I don’t remembers.” She was thinking that if Anna is convicted for a lesser crime—or for crimes she didn’t commit at all—Zoe’s family won’t get justice, not really. Either she’ll get off too easy, or the Spanoses will get to see someone locked away, but not the right someone. And that’s not justice at all.
But she was also thinking about herself, her resolve to find the truth, her piss-poor PSAT scores, and the half-complete application to NYU saved on her laptop. For the first time since she spoke to Anna, she allows herself to consider the teensy, tiny possibility that the interview could hurt Anna’s case. Maybe she should have advised Anna to listen to her lawyers, keep her head down. Maybe she was only being selfish. The prosecution might twist Anna’s words, use them against her. Airing the interview felt right, but maybe it was also just a bit irresponsible. Maybe Martina was thinking more about herself than she was about Anna.
* * *
The day inches forward, the dismissal bell still hours away. By lunch, Episode Five has hit fifteen thousand downloads, almost doubling in the three hours since Martina slid into her seat in AP Euro. Her classmates are talking about her, but that’s nothing new. The whole country is talking about her. Martina lets the rapidly escalating download count ease her doubts: The interview is bringing new, much-needed attention to the case. Airing it was the right thing to do.
Her high is brought to a crashing low when Aster slams her cafeteria tray down on the table in front of her. Her swim-toned muscles spark like live wires beneath her skin. “I can’t believe you.”
Martina inhales the bite of turkey sandwich she’d been chewing, eyes glazing with tears. “What?” she sputters, half voice and half cough.
“Don’t ‘what’ me. You know what.” Her best friend sounds convincingly like Mami.
“I thought …” Martina’s face is twisted with hurt and confusion. “Things are finally moving forward. We’re actually getting somewhere, for the first time.”
“Fuck that,” Aster says. “Suddenly everyone’s sympathetic toward Anna? She confessed, and now she’s just taking it all back. Because of you.”
People are staring. Martina feels their eyes on the back of her neck. She lowers her voice.
“I didn’t tell her what to say. You saw the autopsy report. That story Anna told police wasn’t real, Aster. It couldn’t have happened that way.”
Aster stiffens in her seat on the cafeteria bench. Her cheeks are flushed red. Martina notices with a start that the gold hoop earrings she gave Aster sophomore year—the earrings she never takes off except to swim and sleep—are gone, her best friend’s ears naked in the fluorescent cafeteria light. The message is clear: Fuck you.
“It doesn’t mean she didn’t do it,” Aster says. “Some other way.”
“I agree!” Martina almost shouts. She kept her role in the interview unbiased, she knows she