Chapter 8
The next few days were a whirlwind.
The charges against me were officially dropped.
The ankle monitor came off.
The news vans finally left my street.
Jake Miller was charged with first-degree murder, burglary, and a half-dozen other crimes.
He was denied bail.
He’d spend the rest of his life in prison.
Cindy, the girl who’d pretended to be me, turned herself in.
She was charged with fraud and conspiracy.
She cried through her entire interview with the police, said she’d had no idea Jake was planning to kill anyone.
She’d get probation, probably.
Maybe a year in county lockup.
Brian took a plea deal.
Three years in a minimum-security prison.
Time off for good behavior.
He’d be out in two.
True to my word, I never went to see him.
Never spoke to him again.
Hollis handled all the legal arrangements for the child support.
The money would come automatically every month.
No contact.
No drama.
Just money for his daughter.
And then there was the will.
Mrs. Whitaker’s will.
Two point three million dollars.
All to me.
Jensen, Mrs. Whitaker’s lawyer, called a week after Jake was arrested.
The will was valid, he said.
There was no reason not to execute it.
The money was mine.
All of it.
I hung up the phone and stared at the wall for a long time.
Two point three million dollars.
Enough to pay off the mortgage.
Enough to set up a college fund for the baby.
Enough that I’d never have to worry about money again.
Never have to choose between buying groceries or paying the electric bill.
Never have to panic when the baby needed something and I had nothing in the bank.
But it didn’t feel like a gift.
It felt like blood money.
A sweet old woman was dead so that I could be rich.
Mia found me sitting on the porch that afternoon, staring at Mrs. Whitaker’s house next door.
It was still empty.
Still had police tape on the porch.
The forensics team had finished their work.
The cleaners had come and gone.
But it would never be the same.
Not to me.
“You okay?” Mia asked, sitting down next to me.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Mrs. Whitaker is dead. Because of me. Because someone wanted to use me to get her money. And now I’m rich. It doesn’t feel right.”
Mia put her arm around my shoulders.
“Mrs. Whitaker wanted you to have it,” she said gently. “Even if the way it happened was wrong… she knew you. The real you. She saw how kind you were. How hard you were trying. She wanted to help you. She wanted to take care of you and the baby. That’s what the journal said, remember? They’ll never want for anything again. Not if I can help it.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Honor her, Lila. Use the money to do good. Raise your daughter to be the kind of person Mrs. Whitaker believed you were. That’s the best way to thank her.”
I leaned my head on my sister’s shoulder.
“I’m going to fix up her house,” I said suddenly. “Turn it into something good. A shelter. For women like me. Pregnant. Alone. No place to go. They can stay there for free. Get back on their feet. Learn how to be moms without being scared all the time.”
Mia smiled.
“That’s perfect,” she said. “Mrs. Whitaker would have loved that.”
We sat there in silence for a while, watching the sun set over the neighborhood.
“I’m glad you called me,” Mia said quietly. “That day at the station. I’ve missed you, Lila. More than you know.”
“I missed you too,” I said. “I’m sorry about the wedding. I should have been there. I should have been there for you when Mom died. I was just… so angry. At everything. At myself. I took it out on you.”
“Water under the bridge,” Mia said. “We have the rest of our lives to make up for lost time. Starting with this baby. I’m going to be the best aunt in the world. Spoil her rotten. Teach her all the things you don’t want me to teach her.”
I laughed through my tears.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
The next few weeks were the happiest I’d had in a long time.
Mia moved in with me — temporarily, she said, until the baby was born and I was settled.
But I knew she’d never really leave.
And I didn’t want her to.
We fixed up the house.
Paid off all the bills.
Bought everything the baby would need.
A crib.
A dresser.
Tiny little clothes in pink and yellow and white.
I hired a contractor to start work on Mrs. Whitaker’s house.
The Eleanor Whitaker Home for Mothers and Babies.
That’s what we called it.
It would open in six months.
Four bedrooms.
A playroom.
A big kitchen where women could learn to cook healthy meals for their kids.
On-site counseling.
Job training.
Everything I’d needed when Brian left and I had nowhere to turn.
Everything Mrs. Whitaker would have wanted.
I was thirty-seven weeks pregnant now.
The doctor said the baby could come any day.
My ankles were permanently swollen.
My back hurt constantly.
I was tired all the time.
But I was happy.
Truly happy.
For the first time in as long as I could remember.
I had my sister.
I had a home that was paid for.
I had money in the bank.
I had a purpose — the shelter.
And I had my daughter, kicking inside me, reminding me every day that life goes on.
That even after the worst things imaginable, good things can still happen.
That kindness — real kindness — matters more than anything.
Mrs. Whitaker had been right that day on her porch.
*“You’re such a kind person. Always remember that.”*
May you like
I would remember.
For the rest of my life.
