Chapter 1

Sarah Miller waved goodbye to her daughter, Emily.

"Have fun, sweetie," Sarah said, her voice light.

Emily, all bright smiles and bouncing blonde curls, skipped into the "Creative Kids" art class at the community center.

Sarah watched her go, a familiar warmth spreading through her chest.

She turned to leave, pulling out her phone to call a client about a graphic design project.

The call didn't connect, bad reception in the lobby.

She'd try again from the car.

Less than fifteen minutes passed.

A scream ripped through the quiet hum of the center.

Mr. Peterson, the art instructor, burst from the classroom, his face a mask of terror.

"She killed her! Sarah Miller killed someone!"

Sarah's blood ran cold.

What?

She dropped her phone.

She ran towards the art room, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Mr. Peterson was pointing at her, his hand shaking.

"It was you! I saw you!"

Sarah pushed past him, into the room.

And then she saw.

Emily.

Her Emily.

Lifeless on the floor, amidst scattered art supplies.

Her head...

Sarah' s mind refused to process the horror.

A bloody box cutter lay nearby.

A common tool for cutting cardboard, for art.

Sarah stumbled back, a choked sound escaping her.

The world tilted, colors blurring.

Then, sirens.

Detective Harding arrived, his eyes hard as he took in the scene, then Sarah.

Mr. Peterson was babbling, pointing to a grainy security monitor.

"Look! There she is! Going in!"

The footage showed a figure, vaguely Sarah's build, entering the art room.

Then, later, the same figure, a dark shape, committing an unspeakable act.

The figure left with a large, dark duffel bag.

"I was in the lobby," Sarah whispered, her voice hoarse, "I was trying to make a call."

Harding looked at her, his expression unreadable but cold.

"Mrs. Miller, you're under arrest."

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Confusion, then a rising tide of panic and disbelief.

This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

They cuffed her.

The metal was cold against her skin.

The community center, once a place of happy drop-offs, became a nightmare.

People stared, whispered.

The accusation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

Sarah saw Emily's small, abandoned backpack by the door of the art room.

A sob tore from her throat.

"No," she cried, "No, I didn't. I wouldn't."

Harding just led her away.

The initial evidence was overwhelming, a wall of condemnation already building around her.

The news vans were already pulling up as they escorted her out.

Cameras flashed, blinding her.

Reporters shouted questions.

"Monster Mom," someone yelled.

The label stuck, instantly.

Sarah felt a profound sense of injustice, a disorienting shock that numbed her to the core.

Her world had ended in a brightly lit art room, and now a new, terrible one was beginning.