“Congratulations, kid! Your wife’s locked up for ten years—now the apartment’s ours!” Champagne flowed freely as my husband and mother-in-law toasted my arrest…

“Your Michael was always spineless,” Emily sighed. “I still don’t get why you married him. Love?” “Loved,” Sarah replied simply. “Once.”

She sat at the desk and dug into the soup. It was simple, homey, with a dollop of sour cream and fresh dill, just like her mom used to make when she was sick as a kid. “Seven years,” she continued, chewing a piece of bread. “Seven years of my life down the drain, and they just kept living like nothing happened, tossing my stuff onto the balcony.” “Hold on,” Emily frowned. “So you were in prison with the same clothes they arrested you in?” “No, they issue uniforms,” Sarah shook her head. “But it’s still weird they kept my clothes.”

“Why?” “Because that jacket—the one they found…” She trailed off, but Emily nodded, understanding. “I always knew you didn’t do it,” her friend said quietly. “Always.” “Thanks,” Sarah forced a smile. “You, Nancy from the prison, and my lawyer were the only ones who believed me. Even my parents had doubts until the end. Then Dad died, and Mom moved to Florida with her sister. For good.”

“Listen,” Emily perked up. “Your release is a chance to prove your innocence. It’s been years… maybe new witnesses or evidence have turned up?” Sarah shook her head. “What evidence, Emily? The case is closed, the culprit’s convicted, and all appeals were denied. But if I could find something new…” “What?” Sarah rubbed her tired eyes. “Poison in my father-in-law’s system, a baggie with traces of it in my jacket’s lining, my fingerprints on the mug he drank from. A perfect crime scene. And a rock-solid motive. He threatened to cut Michael out of the will, which meant me too. We weren’t even married yet.”

“But it wasn’t you,” Emily insisted. “It wasn’t,” Sarah echoed. “But who’s going to believe me?” They spent the evening talking. Emily shared updates about the city, old friends, her job at the salon. Sarah mostly listened, occasionally asking questions. A plan was slowly forming in her mind. Before bed, she pulled the blue jacket from the bag and inspected it closely.

A small hole was visible on the right sleeve, the fabric worn thin at the elbow. Sarah remembered how much she loved this jacket, wearing it constantly in spring and fall. “Gotta stitch this,” she muttered, smoothing the worn fabric. “Symbolic. Fix the jacket, then piece my life back together.” That night, she dreamed of purple nails scratching at her cell door.

The nails turned into hands, the hands into Patricia’s face, twisting in horror and melting like wax. Sarah woke in a cold sweat. Outside, a gray autumn dawn broke—the first day of her new, free life, one where she’d not only survive but reclaim justice.

At any cost. Emily’s shared apartment woke slowly and noisily. Floorboards creaked under Pete’s heavy steps, a pot clanged as Mrs. Carter shuffled in the communal kitchen, the front door slammed. Sarah lay with her eyes open, soaking in these sounds of ordinary life. For seven years, she’d woken to the monotonous hum of the women’s prison—coughs, snores, muffled conversations, the metallic clang of doors at morning checks. Now, every domestic noise felt almost musical. “Up yet?” Emily poked her head in, holding two steaming mugs of coffee. “Real stuff, not the instant sludge they gave you in there.”

“Thanks.” Sarah sat up and took a mug. The first sip burned her throat, but she savored the simple pleasure. “What’s your day look like?” “Salon at noon,” Emily said, perching on the desk’s edge. “You? Got plans?” Sarah twirled the mug thoughtfully. “First, I’ll stitch my jacket. Then I need to check on my documents. I’ve got my ID, but the housing status is unclear. And I need a job.”

“With your record, it won’t be easy,” Emily sighed. “I know, but I’ve got an accounting degree. Maybe I can find bookkeeping work, off the books to start.” “Hey, what about the salon? Janitor to begin with. The owner’s cool, won’t pry.” Sarah nodded gratefully. “That’d be great. Thanks, Emily.” Emily left to get ready for work, and Sarah grabbed the jacket.

She found a needle and thread at Emily’s and began carefully mending the sleeve’s hole. Stitch by stitch, as if sewing together the torn edges of her life. Her thoughts drifted to the day everything collapsed.

Seven years ago. A warm May evening. A memorial for Michael’s father, David Thompson. They’d been living together in David’s apartment—David, his son Michael, and Sarah, then just his fiancée. Their wedding was a month away, the paperwork already filed. Patricia, David’s ex-wife, lived across town in her own place. They’d divorced fifteen years earlier, staying in touch only for Michael’s sake. Patricia always felt shortchanged in the divorce and kept staking claims on David’s property, especially after he suffered a stroke that partially paralyzed his right side. That fateful evening, they gathered to honor David’s father.

As usual, they set the table and invited relatives. Patricia showed up, dressed in an expensive navy suit, sporting a fresh, garish manicure—long purple nails with sparkles, too flashy for a memorial, but Patricia always had her own style. Sarah vividly remembered her hands.

Patricia waved them constantly when she spoke, flaunting her rings and that loud manicure. She also recalled Patricia’s sharp, appraising stare when she looked at her future daughter-in-law. That night, David and Patricia got into a heated argument.

David announced he’d transfer his share of the apartment to Michael and Sarah after the wedding. Patricia exploded, screaming that Sarah was a gold-digger, unfit for her son. Sarah stepped out onto the balcony to avoid the drama.

Half an hour later, when she returned, the tension had eased. Patricia sat quietly, David sipped tea from his favorite blue mug as if nothing had happened. The next morning, David didn’t wake up.

The coroner ruled it poisoning by a potent toxin. Two days later, they found a baggie with traces of the same substance in Sarah’s jacket. During questioning, she couldn’t explain it. The jacket had been hanging in the hallway, accessible to anyone. But the investigation latched onto her motive and the fact that she’d served David tea that evening. “Hey, you okay?” Emily’s voice snapped her back to the present. “You look like you saw a ghost.” “Just remembering that night,” Sarah said quietly, making the final stitch. “You know, Emily, I still don’t get who planted that poison. But Patricia? That’s too much, even for her.”..