Episode Three: Terms and Conditions
1000 Words
The cold in the visiting room wasn’t from the air conditioning. It was in the walls, the floor, the silence between breathing. Ada sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, watching the guards escort a young woman into the room.
Malika Harris looked smaller than Ada expected. Nineteen, maybe younger. Her orange jumpsuit was too big, her eyes too wide. Her wrists were bound with cuffs that clicked as she sat across the scratched metal table.
Ada had seen girls like Malika before — in the neighborhood, on the train, standing in line at the grocery store. Girls who had no reason to trust the system, because the system had never done anything but lie.
“I’m with legal support,” Ada said, voice calm and practiced. She wore a gray blazer and carried a black leather binder. A mask of professionalism.
Malika blinked. “I didn’t ask for a lawyer.”
“You didn’t,” Ada said. “I’m just here to ask a few questions. Off the record.”
The girl didn’t speak. Her eyes flicked to the corner camera, then back to Ada.
“You’ve been charged with murder,” Ada continued, opening the binder. “A man was killed outside Club Avalon. You were supposedly seen fleeing the scene.”
“That’s a lie,” Malika said, instantly. “I’ve never even been to Avalon. I was at home. My aunt can confirm.”
Ada made a note, though she already knew. The Hales had picked Malika precisely because she had no real alibi. A single aunt with a criminal record wasn’t enough to stop a planted story from becoming fact.
“Do you know who Dante Hale is?” Ada asked.
Malika’s eyes narrowed. “That the dude who’s really behind this?”
Ada didn’t answer. She didn’t confirm. She didn’t deny.
Instead, she closed her binder. “Thank you, Malika. That’s all for now.”
The girl looked at her. Really looked. “You’re not here to help me, are you?”
Ada stood slowly. “No.”
---
The firm was quiet when Ada returned. She walked to her desk like nothing had changed — but something had. Her body felt hollow, like she was walking through a version of herself she had constructed months ago.
Mr. Gellar called her into his office.
“I heard you visited the Harris girl,” he said, his tone mild. That scared her more than anger would have.
“It was part of the background check,” Ada said.
He nodded. “Don’t let empathy make you sloppy. You’re a valuable asset, Ada. But we don’t tolerate conflict of interest.”
Ada nodded. “Understood.”
He handed her a folder. It was thicker than usual. Inside: detailed information on Malika — phone records, social media, school reports. A note paper-clipped to the top read: Build the case. Make it real.
That night, Ada sat in her apartment with the folder open on her lap. Her mother was asleep in the next room, wheezing lightly. The TV buzzed in the background with some half-forgotten drama playing at low volume.
Ada stared at the photos in the file. Malika smiling at a party. Malika walking home. Malika tagged in a meme about skipping class.
She could flip this girl’s life upside down with a few edits. Paint her as unstable. Violent. A drug user. Someone who could plausibly stab a man behind a nightclub.
She opened her laptop.
Paused.
Then opened her journal instead.
She began to write.
I’m not a monster. I don’t think I am. But maybe monsters don’t think they’re monsters either.
She wrote for an hour, pages pouring out of her like water bursting through cracks in concrete. The Other Ada sat with her, silent but present, a shadow in the corners of her mind.
When she was finished, she tucked the journal away under a false floorboard in her closet — her one act of rebellion.
---
Jesse called again two days later.
“Did you look into Hale?” he asked.
“I can’t talk about it,” she said, her voice brittle.
“Ada—”
“I said I can’t.” She hung up.
She didn’t sleep that night. She walked the streets instead — through North Philly’s sleeping skeletons, past shuttered stores and broken streetlights. Everything felt brittle. One strong gust and it would all blow away.
---
The next morning, Gellar sent her a message. Meeting. URGENT.
She arrived at the office to find a tall man in a gray suit waiting at her desk. He had sharp cheekbones, eyes that didn’t blink often, and a badge tucked into his inner jacket pocket that he didn’t bother to show.
“I’m a friend of the family,” he said.
“The Hales?”
He smiled thinly. “They’re concerned. You’ve been… hesitant.”
Ada said nothing.
“We value silence, Ada. But loyalty is what keeps people alive.”
He placed a small box on her desk. Inside: a prescription bottle. Not hers. Her mother’s name was printed across the label.
Insulin.
“I believe this is out of stock at your pharmacy,” he said. “We can ensure a steady supply. No delays. No errors.”
“What do you want?”
“Make sure the case against Malika sticks. Delete anything that could unravel it. If you can’t protect the narrative, we’ll find someone who can. But I doubt your mother would survive the transition.”
He left the box.
Ada didn’t touch it for hours.
When she finally did, her hands shook.
---
The next time she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see herself. She saw a version of her molded from money, fear, and silence. A girl who had once wanted to write stories now wrote lies for a living.
She whispered aloud, “What am I doing?”
And The Other Ada replied, Whatever you have to.
---
- Writer
