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.

We left Mrs. Whitaker’s house with more questions than answers.

But one thing was clear.

Whoever had killed her knew me.

Knew me well.

Too well.

Back at my house, Mia called Hollis and told him everything we’d found.

The photo on the mantel.

The notes on the fridge.

The diary entries.

He said he’d get a court order for the full diary and have it analyzed immediately.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“The preliminary autopsy is back,” he said over the speakerphone. “Mrs. Whitaker didn’t just die from the blow to the head. She was also given a large dose of a prescription sedative. Lorazepam. Enough to knock her out before she was hit.”

“Lorazepam,” Mia repeated. “That’s a controlled substance. You need a prescription for it.”

“Exactly,” Hollis said. “Which means our killer either had a prescription themselves, or they stole it. We’re running Mrs. Whitaker’s medical records now. If she wasn’t prescribed it, then we know it came from the killer.”

I thought about Brian.

He’d had back problems a few years ago.

The doctor had given him Lorazepam for the muscle spasms.

He’d loved the stuff.

Said it was the only thing that helped him relax.

I’d thrown the bottle away after he’d passed out on the couch one night and forgotten to pick me up from work.

But what if he’d gotten more?

What if he’d kept a bottle somewhere?

“Brian was prescribed Lorazepam a few years ago,” I said into the phone. “For his back.”

There was silence on the other end.

Then Hollis spoke.

“That’s very useful information, Lila. I’ll have the DA subpoena his medical records. If he had a recent prescription… well, that’s another piece of the puzzle.”

He paused.

“Now, about Brian. Do you have any idea where he might be? Any friends he might be staying with? Any family?”

I thought hard.

Brian’s parents lived in Florida.

He hadn’t spoken to them in years, not since they’d disowned him for dropping out of college.

He had a few friends in town, but I hadn’t seen any of them since he left.

“There’s a guy he used to work with,” I said. “Jake Miller. They were close. Jake has a trailer out by the lake. Brian used to go there when he wanted to disappear for a few days.”

“I’ll pass that along to Sheriff Hale,” Hollis said. “In the meantime, you two stay inside. Lock the doors. If you see or hear anything suspicious, call 911 immediately. We don’t know who we’re dealing with here, and if they’re willing to kill an old woman and frame a pregnant woman, they’re capable of anything.”

He hung up.

Mia and I sat in the kitchen, staring at each other.

“Jake Miller,” Mia said. “I remember him. Sketchy guy. Always in trouble.”

“Brian thought he was cool,” I said bitterly. “They were two peas in a pod. Drank too much. Gamble too much. Chased anything in a skirt.”

“Gamble too much,” Mia repeated. “How much?”

“A lot,” I said. “Toward the end, before he left… he was getting calls all the time. Angry calls. People yelling about money. He’d stay up all night, pacing the house. I think he owed people. A lot of people. Dangerous people.”

Mia stood up, pacing again.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s the missing piece. Brian owes money to dangerous people. Lots of it. He needs two million dollars to pay them off. So he comes up with this plan. He pretends to be you — or gets someone else to pretend to be you — gains Mrs. Whitaker’s trust, gets her to change her will. Then he kills her, frames you, and waits. Once you’re convicted, the will is invalidated, the estate goes to probate… and somehow, he gets his hands on the money.”

She stopped pacing.

“Or maybe he didn’t even need the will. Maybe the fifty thousand was just a down payment. Maybe he stole more from her before he left. Jewelry. Bonds. Cash she kept in the house.”

“Sheriff Hale said it looked like the drawers were rifled through,” I said. “Like they were looking for something.”

“Exactly,” Mia said. “Brian’s desperate. Desperate people do stupid things. And dangerous things.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

Mia made me eat something.

Made me lie down for a while.

But I couldn’t sleep.

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

I saw him in Mrs. Whitaker’s house, drinking her tea, listening to her stories, smiling and nodding while he planned her murder.

I saw him hitting her from behind.

I saw him planting the note and the money in my mailbox.

Around five o’clock, there was a knock at the door.

My heart jumped into my throat.

Mia grabbed the baseball bat she’d propped by the door — she’d found it in the garage that afternoon — and looked through the peephole.

Her shoulders relaxed.

“It’s Hollis,” she said, unlocking the door.

Hollis stepped inside, looking grim.

“Bad news,” he said without preamble. “We found Brian. Or rather, we found his car. Abandoned in a parking lot on the edge of town. The inside was wiped clean. No prints. No fibers. Nothing. But we did find one thing in the glove compartment.”

He held up an evidence bag.

Inside was a small, empty pill bottle.

The label was smudged, but I could still read it.

*Lorazepam, 2mg.*

*Patient: Brian Thomas.*

*Refills remaining: 0.*

My hands started shaking.

“That’s his,” I whispered. “That’s exactly what he used to take.”

“It gets worse,” Hollis said. “We ran the signature on the confession note against samples of Brian’s handwriting. Our expert says there’s a very high probability that Brian wrote the note. And forged your signature at the bottom.”

He sat down at the table.

“Sheriff Hale has put out an APB on Brian Thomas. Considered armed and dangerous. But here’s the problem — Brian’s not that smart. Never has been. This whole scheme? The fake identity, the will, the forged note, the Lorazepam? That’s not Brian. That’s someone else. Someone who’s been pulling Brian’s strings this whole time.”

“Who?” Mia asked.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Hollis said. “Brian’s a follower. Always has been. Someone told him what to do. Someone planned this whole thing out. And whoever that someone is… they’re still out there. And they’re probably watching this house right now.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

I looked out the kitchen window at the growing darkness.

What if someone was out there?

Watching.

Waiting.

Hollis left a short time later, promising to have a patrol car parked outside the house all night.

Mia made dinner — pasta, simple and plain, something my stomach could handle.

But I could barely eat.

My nerves were stretched too tight.

After dinner, we were sitting in the living room, watching the local news.

My face was on the screen again.

*“Pregnant mother accused of murdering elderly neighbor. More at eleven.”*