Chapter 4

The transport van rumbled through the city streets. Sarah sat in the back, shackled, her head bowed, the false memory of her crime a searing brand on her soul. She had confessed. It was over.

As the van slowed for a traffic light near the courthouse, a crowd surged forward, faces contorted with rage, signs screaming for justice.

"Murderer!"

"Baby killer!"

The shouts rained down on her, each one a fresh blow. Sarah flinched, trying to shrink into herself.

Then, through the grimy window of the van, she saw a face in the crowd.

Jessica Evans.

Jessica wasn't shouting. She wasn't holding a sign. She was just watching, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. A smug, triumphant smile.

Something snapped inside Sarah.

The fog of despair and self-loathing momentarily cleared, replaced by a white-hot flash of rage. That smile. It was the smile of a predator who had successfully cornered its prey.

"You!" Sarah screamed, lunging against her restraints, her voice raw and powerful, cutting through the din of the mob. "You did this, Jessica! You set me up!"

The sudden, furious accusation took everyone by surprise. The crowd quieted for a heartbeat. The officers in the van tensed.

Jessica's smug expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of shock, then quickly schooled back into a look of pained bewilderment for the benefit of those around her.

The van lurched forward, pulling Sarah away from the chaotic scene, but the image of Jessica's smile, and her own explosive accusation, remained burned into her mind.

Later, during another interrogation, Detective Harding tried to steer her back to her confession.

"Mrs. Miller, you already admitted what you did. Why this outburst about Ms. Evans?"

Sarah was desperate. The brief moment of clarity had faded, but a sliver of doubt about her "memory" had taken root. Jessica's reaction, however fleeting, felt wrong.

"She's lying," Sarah insisted, her voice hoarse. "Jessica... she's not who you think she is. She's having an affair with my husband, with David!"

Harding raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Do you have any proof of that, Mrs. Miller?"

"Her son," Sarah blurted out, grasping at straws, a half-forgotten piece of gossip surfacing. "Everyone thinks Mr. Henderson is the father of Jessica's little boy. But it's not Henderson. It's David! David is his father!"

It was a wild claim, born of desperation, but it hung in the air, charged with a desperate conviction. If Jessica and David were together, and David was the father of Jessica's child, it painted a very different picture. A motive. A conspiracy.