Chapter 3
The phone in the interrogation room was old, with a heavy cord and buttons that stuck when you pressed them.
I stood there, the receiver pressed to my ear, staring at the numbers.
There was only one person I could call.
Only one person who might actually come.
Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in five years.
Even though the last thing I’d said to her was that I never wanted to see her face again.
My sister.
Mia.
I dialed her number from memory.
My hands were shaking so badly I misdialed twice before getting it right.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I was about to hang up when I heard her voice.
“Hello?”
She sounded the same.
Exactly the same.
Like no time had passed at all.
“Mia,” I said. My voice came out as a whisper. “It’s Lila.”
Silence on the other end.
Long, heavy silence.
“Lila?” she said finally. “Is that really you?”
“I need your help,” I said, and the dam broke. I started crying all over again, harder than before. “They arrested me, Mia. They’re saying I killed Mrs. Whitaker, the old lady next door. But I didn’t. I swear to God I didn’t. I’m in jail. I’m thirty-four weeks pregnant and I’m in jail and they’re going to charge me with murder tomorrow and I have nowhere else to go—”
“Slow down,” Mia said. Her voice had changed instantly. The hesitation was gone, replaced by the sharp, take-charge tone she’d had since we were kids. “Where are you? The county jail in town?”
“Yes. The police station on Oak Street.”
“I’m leaving right now,” she said. “Do not say another word to anyone until I get there. Not the sheriff, not the detectives, not the guy who brings you water. Nothing. Do you understand me?”
“I understand.”
“I’m calling our lawyer on the way. The one Dad used. He’s retired now but he owes me a favor. He’ll be there too.”
“Mia,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For what I said. For not calling—”
“We don’t have time for that right now,” she said, but her voice was softer now. “We’ll talk later. Just hold on. I’m coming.”
She hung up.
I stood there holding the receiver for a long moment after the dial tone started.
She was coming.
My sister was coming.
After everything that had happened between us.
I sank back into the plastic chair, my legs too weak to hold me up.
The door opened and a female officer led me to a holding cell.
It was small.
Cold.
A concrete bench with a thin, scratchy blanket.
A toilet in the corner with no privacy.
I sat on the bench, pulling the blanket around my shoulders, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
My mind kept replaying the last twenty-four hours.
Mowing Mrs. Whitaker’s lawn.
Her holding my hand.
“You’re such a kind person. Always remember that.”
The sheriff at my door.
The confession note.
The money.
Who could have done this?
Who hated me enough to frame me for murder?
I didn’t have enemies.
I barely had friends anymore.
I’d withdrawn from everyone after Brian left.
After the baby came and everything fell apart.
Brian.
The thought hit me like a lightning bolt.
Brian.
He’d disappeared three months ago, right after I told him I was pregnant.
But what if he’d never really left?
What if he’d been watching me this whole time?
He knew I was behind on the mortgage.
He knew I was desperate.
He knew my schedule.
He knew Mrs. Whitaker lived next door — he’d complained about her a hundred times, said she was a nosy old bat who watched everything through her curtains.
And Brian had always been good with his hands.
Good at forging things.
Good at lying.
Good at disappearing when things got messy.
But why?
Why would he kill an old woman and frame me for it?
What did he have to gain?
Unless…
Unless Mrs. Whitaker’s money wasn’t the target.
Unless I was.
Brian had never wanted the baby.
He’d told me so, the night he left.
*“You’re making a mistake,”* he’d said. “I’m not ready to be a dad. I’m not ready to be tied down. If you keep this thing, you’re on your own.”
What if this was his way of making sure I stayed on my own?
Permanently.
If I went to prison for life, he’d never have to pay child support.
He’d never have to be a father.
He’d be free.
The thought made me sick to my stomach.
I leaned forward, resting my head in my hands.
It was too much.
All of it was too much.
I was so tired.
So scared.
I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, the cell door was clanging open.
“Carter,” the female officer said. “Your sister’s here. And your lawyer.”
I stood up too fast and my vision swam.
The officer steadied me.
“Easy there,” she said. For the first time, there was something like kindness in her voice. “Come on.”
She led me down the hallway to a small meeting room.
The door opened.
And there she was.
Mia.
She looked exactly the same.
Same dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
Same sharp, intelligent eyes.
Same set to her jaw that meant she was ready to fight.
She was wearing a business suit — she’d always been the professional one, the one who’d gone to college and made something of herself.
The good daughter.
While I’d been the disappointment.
The one who’d gotten pregnant too young.
The one who’d fought with our parents and left home at eighteen.
The one who’d made every wrong choice imaginable.
She took one look at me and her face crumpled.
“Oh, Lila,” she said, and crossed the room in two steps.
She pulled me into a hug.
A real hug.
Tight and warm and familiar.
I cried into her shoulder, all the fear and shame and exhaustion pouring out of me.
“I’m so sorry,” I kept saying. “I’m so sorry, Mia.”
“Shhh,” she said, rubbing my back. “It’s okay. We’re going to fix this. I promise.”
A man cleared his throat behind her.
I pulled back, wiping my eyes.
An older man in a rumpled suit was standing by the table, watching us with a gentle expression.
“Lila,” Mia said, stepping aside. “This is Arthur Hollis. He was Dad’s lawyer. He’s agreed to take your case.”
Hollis held out his hand.
“Good to meet you, Lila,” he said. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances. Your sister has told me a bit about what’s happening. Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me everything from the beginning. And I mean everything. Don’t leave anything out. No matter how small or embarrassing it might seem.”
We sat at the table.
Mia sat next to me, her hand resting on my arm the whole time.
And I told them everything.
Everything that had led up to that day.
Brian leaving.
The bills piling up.
The foreclosure notice.
Seeing Mrs. Whitaker struggling with her mower.
Mowing her lawn.
Her words to me when I finished.
The sheriff at my door the next morning.
The note.
The money.
Hollis listened without interrupting, taking notes in a small notebook.
When I finished, he sat back, tapping his pen against his lips.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Here’s where we stand. The evidence against you is entirely circumstantial, but it’s strong circumstantial. The note, the money, the motive, the fact that you were the last person to see her alive — that’s enough for the DA to take to a grand jury. And in this town? With a pregnant woman accused of killing a sweet little old lady? A jury will convict before the opening arguments are finished.”
He leaned forward.
“But there are holes. Big ones. First — no murder weapon. Second — no physical evidence placing you at the scene after you left yesterday afternoon. No fingerprints in her house besides what would be there from you mowing her lawn. Third — the confession note. The signature is almost perfect, but not quite. I’ve seen forgeries before. This one’s good, but a good expert can pick it apart. Fourth — the timeline. If Mrs. Whitaker was killed last night, you’d have had to go over there, kill her, stage the scene, sneak back home, and plant the evidence in your own mailbox. That’s a lot of activity for a woman who’s seven and a half months pregnant. And your neighbors — none of them reported seeing you leave your house last night.”
“Can you get me out?” I asked, my voice small.
Hollis nodded.
“I can get you bail,” he said. “But it won’t be cheap. And you’ll be under house arrest. Ankle monitor. Can’t leave your property except for doctor’s appointments and court dates. No contact with any potential witnesses. That means no going next door. No talking to Mrs. Whitaker’s family, if any show up. Nothing.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Mia said immediately. “Whatever it costs.”
I turned to her, horrified.
“Mia, no. You can’t—”
“I can and I will,” she said firmly. “You’re my sister. That’s what family does. Even when we’re being idiots and not talking to each other for five years.”
May you like
She squeezed my hand.
“We’re going to get through this,” she said. “Together.”
