I was 34 weeks pregnant, completely alone, and just three days away from losing my house to foreclosure when I saw my 82-year-old next-door neighbor struggling with a rusted lawnmower, so I spent three sweltering hours cutting her knee-high grass even though my ankles swelled so bad I could barely stand up straight.

They released me at three in the morning.

Mia paid the bail — ten thousand dollars, cash, money she’d probably been saving for something important.

Hollis had argued for house arrest instead of jail, citing my pregnancy and my lack of a criminal record.

The judge had agreed, but only just.

Now I had a black plastic anklet around my left ankle, heavy and tight, a constant reminder that my life wasn’t my own anymore.

Mia drove me home in her car.

The streets were empty.

The town was asleep.

But as we turned onto my street, I saw them.

News vans.

Parked up and down the road, cameras pointed at my house.

“Damn it,” Mia muttered, slowing down. “I thought they’d be gone by now.”

“Who called them?” I whispered.

“Probably the sheriff’s department,” she said. “Or someone at the hospital where Mrs. Whitaker was taken. Small towns leak like sieves.”

She pulled into my driveway, parking behind a patrol car that was parked there — probably to make sure I didn’t run.

“Stay in the car,” Mia said. “I’ll handle them.”

She got out before I could protest.

I watched through the windshield as reporters swarmed her, microphones thrust in her face.

She stood her ground, saying nothing, just walking around to my side of the car and opening the door.

“Come on,” she said, shielding me with her body. “Keep your head down. Don’t say anything.”

I did as she said.

I could hear the questions being shouted at me.

*“Did you kill Mrs. Whitaker?”*

*“How could you do that to a defenseless old woman?”*

*“What about your baby? Are you fit to be a mother?”*

The words cut like knives.

We made it to the front door.

Mia unlocked it and practically pushed me inside, slamming the door shut behind us.

We stood there in the dark entryway, breathing hard.

My legs gave out and I slid down the wall to the floor.

Mia sat next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders.

“I hate this,” I sobbed. “I hate that everyone thinks I’m a monster. I hate that I can’t even leave my own house. I hate that Brian did this to me—”

Mia went still.

“Brian?” she said carefully. “You think Brian’s behind this?”

I nodded, wiping my eyes.

“Who else?” I said. “He knows everything about me. He knew I was desperate. He knew Mrs. Whitaker lived next door. He never wanted this baby, Mia. He told me if I kept it, I’d be on my own. What if this is his way of making sure of that? If I go to prison, he never has to pay child support. He never has to be a dad. He gets to be free.”

Mia was quiet for a long moment.

“Have you seen him?” she asked. “Since he left?”

I shook my head.

“No. Not once. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been around. He knows my schedule. He knows when I’m at the doctor, when I’m at the grocery store. He could have been watching me for months.”

“Okay,” Mia said, standing up and pulling me to my feet. “Okay. That’s a lead. A real lead. We’ll tell Hollis about it in the morning. But right now, you need to sleep. You look exhausted.”

She led me to the bedroom.

I changed into my pajamas while she made up the guest room down the hall.

When she came back to say goodnight, I grabbed her hand.

“Mia,” I said. “Why are you doing this? After everything I said to you. After I missed your wedding. After I told you I hated you—”

She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Because you’re my sister,” she said simply. “Because we fought about stupid things. Because I was angry at you for years, and then one day I woke up and realized that life’s too short to hold grudges. Especially when the only family you have left is being an idiot and pushing everyone away.”

She squeezed my hand.

“And because Mom would kill me if I let you go through this alone.”

The mention of our mother made my throat tight.

She’d died three years ago.

Cancer.

Fast and brutal.

I’d been fighting with Mia at the time.

Fighting with everyone.

I’d barely spoken to Mom in the last month of her life.

It was the biggest regret of my life.

“I miss her,” I whispered.

“Me too,” Mia said. She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start fighting back.”

I closed my eyes.

For the first time since the sheriff knocked on my door, I didn’t feel completely alone.

Mia was here.

She was on my side.

We were going to figure this out.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mrs. Whitaker’s face.

I saw the confession note.

I saw Brian’s face, the night he left.

*“If you keep this thing, you’re on your own.”*

At some point, I must have drifted off.

Because the next thing I knew, the sun was coming through the curtains.

And I could hear voices in the kitchen.

Mia’s voice.

And a man’s voice.

I sat up, my heart pounding.

Who was here?

I swung my legs over the bed, my anklet clinking against the floor.

I made my way slowly down the hall.

The kitchen door was open.

Mia was standing by the counter, her back to me.

And facing her was a man I’d never seen before.

He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties.

Dark hair.

Tired eyes.

He was holding a piece of paper.

“…don’t understand,” Mia was saying. “What do you mean, she changed it?”

“I mean exactly what I said,” the man replied. “Mrs. Whitaker came to see me two weeks ago. She wanted to update her will. She left everything — the house, the savings, the life insurance — to your sister. Lila Carter.”

The blood drained from my face.

I stepped into the kitchen.

Both of them turned to look at me.

“Lila,” Mia said, her eyes wide. “This is Mr. Jensen. He’s Mrs. Whitaker’s lawyer.”

Jensen held out his hand, but I couldn’t move.

“Ms. Carter,” he said gently. “I’m very sorry for what you’re going through. I came as soon as I heard the news. I wanted you to know — Mrs. Whitaker thought very highly of you. She told me you’d been helping her out around the house for months. That you were the only person who’d been kind to her since her husband died.”

I shook my head, trying to process what he was saying.

“But… I only mowed her lawn once,” I said. “Yesterday. That was the first time I’d ever even spoken to her.”

Jensen looked confused.

“That’s not what she told me,” he said. “She said you’d been coming over every week for the past three months. Helping with groceries. Cleaning. Taking her to doctor’s appointments. She said you were like the daughter she never had.”

My stomach dropped.

Someone had been pretending to be me.

Someone had been going to Mrs. Whitaker’s house, pretending to be the girl next door, gaining her trust.

And that someone had convinced her to leave everything to me.

So that when she died — I would be the one with the biggest motive of all.

Two million dollars.

That’s what was at stake.

Not fifty thousand.

*Two million.*

And it was all left to me.

The perfect frame.

The perfect motive.

The perfect crime.

“Mrs. Whitaker was a very wealthy woman,” Jensen was saying, oblivious to the shock on my face. “Between the house, the investments, and the insurance, the estate is worth approximately two point three million dollars. All of it to you, Ms. Carter. Provided, of course, that you’re not convicted of her murder.”

He paused.

“Under the law, if you’re found guilty of killing her, you forfeit any inheritance. It would go to the state. But if you’re cleared… it’s all yours.”

Two point three million dollars.

Enough to pay off the mortgage ten times over.

Enough to raise my baby without ever worrying about money again.