I go still. The police.

It's the day I've been dreading for months.

"THIS IS A WARNING. IF YOU DON'T OPEN THE DOOR WE'LL BREAK IT DOWN."

I gasp. As I fly to the door, a jumble of thoughts run through my mind.

I wish Victoria were here because she'd know how to handle this. I hope the neighbors aren't home to hear this, especially that nice Cuban couple with the fluffy dog across the hall.

What do I tell the cops about Griffin? Do they know about the cash he'd left in the safe deposit box? Why do I feel like I've done something wrong when I'm totally innocent?

Breathless and shaking, I pull open the door. Three men are standing there, looking stern. Two are in police uniforms, the other is in plain clothes, a blue shirt and tan pants.

"Hi," I say softly. "How can I help you?'

"Are you Juliette Phillips?"

My heart feels like it's going to pound out of my chest. I've never been this scared. "Yes."

"You're under arrest."

"What?" I cry out.

Somehow, I back up into the condo and they enter. We're all standing in my living room, decorated in grey and pink — the pink was Victoria's idea — and I'm wearing striped cotton pajamas. I look down at my feet.

Hot pink fuzzy slippers.

"You're under arrest for prostitution."

"What?" I yell. Then I start laughing. I can't help it. The very idea is absurd.

"We'll give you five minutes if you want to get dressed." says the plainclothes cop, who seems to be the oldest one. He has greying hair.

"That's ridiculous. I'm not a prostitute. I'm a student."

"Sure you are. You hookers, sorry, escorts, are all students. You and your friend Victoria. She's your pimp, right?"

I hold up my hands and try to speak calmly. "I think this must be a misunderstanding. Victoria's my roommate. I'm a college student."

"Aren't they all," one of the uniformed officers says. He's standing at the window which overlooks the ocean. "How do you girls afford a place like this?"

I'm frozen to the tile floor. They do have a point. How should I explain our swank living arrangement? We'd moved in together after Griffin died.

"Seriously, c'mon. Put on some clothes. We have others to arrest tonight."

I glare at the older cop. "You're not joking."

He folds his beefy arms. "This isn't a joke. You'll find out more at the station. Where you can call your lawyer."

I don't have a lawyer. Maybe I could call Griffin's lawyer, the one who charges four hundred an hour. That's ridiculous, though, because I'm innocent.

I begin to make my way to my bedroom when I notice the younger cop following. I look at him, incredulous.

"Hey, we don't know if you're going to come out with a gun."

"So you're going to watch me change?" I glare at him.

"Pretty much." He puts his hand on his belt, touching his gun. "Move real slow, though."

The next five minutes are the most humiliating of my life. I literally have to strip in front of this man, who ogles me all the while. I throw on jeans and a sweatshirt that are crumpled on the floor, and some flip flops. By the time I zip up my hoodie I'm sobbing.

I walk out of my room and one of the cops takes my upper arms.

"Can you not handcuff me?" I whimper. "I'm not going to fight you or anything when we leave. I'm way smaller than you."

The cops look at each other. "Yeah, I guess we can do that. Count yourself lucky. It's only because you're little. If you were a guy, your ass would be in handcuffs."

They all snicker as we leave, and they surround me as we walk down the corridor and to the elevator.

I'm silent all the way down, and as we leave the building. My cheeks burn hot as we walk past the concierge. I can't acknowledge him.

The officer puts me in the back of an unmarked car, and my fear spikes again. What if they're not cops? What if they're going to rape me? But they could have, in my condo, and didn't.

When I hear the police radio, I'm slightly relieved. As relieved as one person can be when she's being falsely arrested.

I want to ask more questions, but I also know I should shut up until I have more information — or until I can talk to Victoria.

At the police station, we all get out of the car and one roughly grabs my arm.

"Now we need to handcuff you," the plainclothes guy says.

Another officer spins me around to face the car, and yanks my arms behind me. I start to sob when I feel the cold metal of the handcuffs, and I whimper all the way inside the building.

"We'll put you in holding now until the detective is ready." They walk me down the hall and unlock a rusty-looking green door and shove me in.

There are three women already in the small space, and they glance up with hard, bored eyes. The echoes of other women's shouts from other cells on this floor fill the air, and it smells sour and earthy, like body odor. Where is Victoria?

I'm not sure if I should cry harder or shut up, but figure it's probably better to do the latter. I find an empty space on a bench and do my best to curl up into a ball, shivering.

I didn't think life could get any worse, but here I am.

* * *

Hours later — it must be nearly dawn by now — A man calls my name through the bars and unlocks the door. He points to me and I get up from the bench, walking slowly, as if one of the women in this cell will attack if I make a sudden move. Thank God none of the others acknowledged me for the past few hours, although a violent fight down the hall left what was left of my nerves seriously frayed.

The cop leads me down a hall to an office, where a woman with the wildest curly hair I've ever seen is sitting behind a desk.

"Have a seat, Miss Phillips." Her eyes tell me she's not screwing around and I'm instantly afraid. "I'm Detective Jill Jemison."

Trembling, I ease into the chair.

"I'm not a prostitute." I try to say this in a matter-of-fact tone, but my voice comes out shaky instead.

"My dear, an informant told us you were with Victoria Harlow last Friday, and that she gave you and three other girls instructions on where to go and how to solicit sex from men. You left a restaurant downtown to meet with a client, and our undercover detective saw you at approximately eight-thirty p.m."

I shake my head. "Well, your undercover detective's wrong. Friday? Last Friday? No. That's not possible. Victoria's my roommate, but I didn't go out with her that night. I went to a party at Miami Dade College, where I'm a student. Then I came home to read."

Surely this will be over soon, once this woman realizes the mix-up.

"Honey, the informant said Victoria was with two blondes and a dark-haired girl. The informant mentioned you by name, and one of the blondes we arrested yesterday said you're an escort. We arrested Victoria at a club tonight. She's not saying anything, though. I'm sure she will sooner or later."

I scowl. This seems like pretty flimsy evidence, and I feel ragey towards the informant and the random blonde. "That can't be right. I went to the party at the school last week, then came home to put on my pajamas and fuzzy slippers."

She shrugs. "Men have all kinds of fetishes."

"I am not a whore." I might have said that a little too loud because she gives me a stern look.

"I can show you that I was at the party last week. And the concierge at the condo can tell you I came in by myself, and that no one came to our unit. It's a strict condo. People can't get past the front desk without signing in. There's probably video footage, too."

God, why didn't I think of this hours ago?

She shoots me a glare that says, oh yeah? Prove it, bitch.

My brain kicks into high gear. "Nine p.m.? Wait. Someone took a photo of me around that time."

The detective raises an eyebrow. "Hmm. Do you have anyone who saw you at the party?"

I chew on my bottom lip. Do I still have Clara's number? Surely she would tell this detective I was at the party for a couple of hours. Would they believe her? Or would she deny even knowing me once she found out the cops had arrested me?

Or...an idea pops into my head. It's a humiliating, shameful idea, but it might boost my chances of getting out of here.

"If you can retrieve my purse from whoever has it, I can show you the photo, and it has the date and time stamp in the metadata. And I can give you the business card of a professor — a donor to the school — who I spoke with for an hour at the party. Please? He's in the photo."

I sniffle and the woman regards me suspiciously.

"Please?" I whisper.

She picks up a worn desk phone receiver and punches a couple of buttons. "Can you please bring in the personal items of Miss Juliette Phillips?"

She hangs up and keeps staring at me. I haven't done anything but I feel immensely guilty. This is next-level insane.

I'm going to kill Victoria if I ever get out of here.

The office door swings open and a man hands the detective a bin, containing my purse.

She opens the bag and rummages around, then pulls out my phone. She hands it to me. As the detective regards me with a sour look, I find what I need.

I look up and snap my fingers. "Oh! And our photo from that night was also in the school newspaper. It was taken by the same guy who took this, right at the same time. You can probably look online and find the newspaper."

The detective leans forward. "Oh, really?"

Thank God my phone still has battery. I scroll to the photo of me, Clara and Dr. Engel. "See? That's what I was doing at nine p.m. Look at the time stamp."

She studies the phone screen. "Hmm."

"And here." I hand her a business card, a hint of triumph in my voice. This is now a fricking crusade to prove my innocence. "Call Dr. Sebastian Engel. He's the guy in the photo. He donated millions to the school and I talked for a long time with him that night. He'll vouch for me. And you can call Clara, the other woman in the photo. I have her number."

She hands me the phone and slowly accepts the card. Smirking, she picks up the grimy-looking phone handset and waves the card.

"This Engel guy's pretty well-known. He donates to the Police Benevolent Association," she says as she dials.

It's on speakerphone and the phone rings once. Then twice. By the third ring, I'm starting to sweat. He answers on the fourth ring. I've never been so relieved to hear someone's voice. Sebastian's deep timbre, accented by his German accent, fills the small room. I hold my breath.

"Dr. Engel, this is Jill Jemison of the Miami Police Department. I'm so sorry to bother you at this hour."

"Is something wrong, Detective Jemison?" Engel's voice betrays no emotion.

"No, no. We've got a young lady here who is accused of a crime. She says she was with you on the night in question. Around nine p.m. at a party at the college. Her name is Juliette Phillips." The detective picks up a paper and reads the date out loud.

"Juliette," he draws my name out and I hold my breath, hoping he remembers. "Of course. We had a wonderful, long chat that evening. She was at the party in my honor at the school. I recall walking up to her and her friend shortly after I gave my speech, which was approximately eight-forty-five. And then the school photographer took our photo. I don't see how she could have committed any crime — we talked for a while after the photo was taken. Juliette's a diligent, intelligent young woman."

"Thank you Dr. Engel. Sorry to bother you."

The detective hangs up the phone and sighs.

Exhaling, I look down at my phone, navigating to the school newspaper. I find the photo in the "College Connections" section. I hold it up. "See? The paper. Here's the photo. It's similar to the one I have on my phone."

She squints and sighs again when I offer her the cell. She shakes her head, and I rest the phone in my lap.

Please let me go home, I beg silently. Please...

We stare at each other for a few seconds. She straightens a few papers on her desk.

"I don't think we have enough evidence to hold you, or to charge you. I'm going to let you go, but with a warning. And I'm telling you this only because you seem like a sweet kid. That roommate of yours, Victoria, she's trouble."

"Don't I know it," I mutter.

____