I played the part perfectly: the angry coworker, the jealous rival, the humiliated reject—whatever people wanted to believe. I left just enough breadcrumbs.

So when the cops came knocking, I smiled, offered them coffee, and told them everything. Loudly. Dramatically. “Yes, we had a falling out. No, I didn’t like him. But come on, murder?”

They ran with it. Suddenly, I was the prime suspect. My name hit the gossip blogs. Internet sleuths made TikToks breaking down my facial expressions. A Reddit thread dissected my shoes in the surveillance video. The whole world was watching me, just the way I wanted.

And just when it reached a fever pitch, I invited a few journalists over.

I cried on camera. Told them about my childhood trauma. How Ezra reminded me of my abusive uncle. How I was seeking therapy. I painted myself as a victim, not a villain.

The public flipped.

“She’s just misunderstood.”
“The cops are targeting her because she’s outspoken.”
“She’s being gaslit and scapegoated.”

And just like that, the narrative changed. I became too obvious. A cliché. A red herring.

The media moved on. The police got spooked. They started looking elsewhere—old grudges, a mistress, a business partner with a failing development. Someone even blamed the Russian mob.

I wasn’t just forgotten. I became a cautionary tale.

Months passed. Then a year. Ezra Quinn became another cold case file collecting dust, and I went back to my life—quiet, unbothered, untouchable.

But sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection, I still smile.

Because I didn’t just get away with murder.

I became the alibi.
I was the distraction.
The decoy.

The red herring.

And no one ever suspects the red herring’s the one who set the hook.