“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…

Emily frowned. “Isn’t it obvious? Who benefited from David’s death and your conviction? Her. She wanted Michael to marry her friend’s daughter—what was her name?” “Jessica,” Sarah corrected automatically. “But that’s not proof. And why poison her ex-husband? They were already divorced. You said yourself, he was going to transfer the apartment share to me and Michael, meaning she’d get nothing.” Sarah tied off the thread and snipped it. The seam was neat, nearly invisible. “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully. “But I’ve got no proof, just guesses.”

“You need to act,” Emily said firmly. “First, check your legal status in the apartment. You were registered there, right?” “Yeah,” Sarah nodded. “David insisted when Michael and I got engaged. Said if I was joining the family, I should have full rights.” “Exactly! They couldn’t just kick you out, even if they wanted to.” “Seven years is a long time, Emily,” Sarah sighed, putting away the needle and thread. “Maybe Michael divorced me through the courts because of my conviction. They could’ve deregistered me then.” “Check it,” Emily glanced at her watch. “I gotta run. Head to the county clerk’s office, find out your status. And swing by the salon tonight, talk to the owner about the job. She’s there till eight.”

After Emily left, Sarah sipped another coffee and sorted her few possessions. Jacket, sweater, another jacket. In the gray windbreaker’s pocket, she found a crumpled grocery receipt and a used bus ticket, relics of her old, normal life. A life where she was just a woman planning a wedding, dreaming of a home. Sarah smoothed the jacket and hung it on a chair. This wasn’t just clothing—it was evidence.

According to the prosecution, she’d hidden the poison in it. It’s why she’d spent seven years in prison. She examined the jacket’s exterior, then slowly turned the sleeve inside out, studying the lining.

That’s where they’d found the baggie, in a small tear between the outer fabric and the lining, a gap in the sleeve. Sarah frowned, peering at the fabric. The hole was noticeable, just over half an inch, with jagged edges, as if it had been torn, not just worn through. She slipped a finger into the gap, feeling for anything unusual. Nothing. Empty.

If there’d been a hiding spot for the poison, it was long gone. The evidence had been seized seven years ago. Disappointed, Sarah decided to mend this hole too. Why keep a reminder of that awful day? She threaded the needle again and began carefully stitching the tear. The needle slid between the lining and fabric, and something sharp pricked her finger. Sarah flinched, instinctively bringing her finger to her lips.

A tiny bead of blood appeared. “What the hell?” she muttered, cautiously probing the spot. Something hard and sharp was lodged between the fabric layers.

Sarah gently slipped two fingers into the hole and moved them along the seam. Finally, she felt it and slowly pulled it out—a purple press-on nail with sparkles. Her heart raced.

She remembered those nails. Patricia had flaunted them at the memorial, bragging about her new manicure. Every photo showed those long, purple, tacky nails. Sarah froze, holding the nail in trembling fingers.

The pieces clicked into place. Patricia was the only one with nails like that. Only she could’ve accessed the jacket while Sarah was out of sight, and she had the strongest motive. “My God,” Sarah whispered, clutching the damning evidence, “it was her. All along, it was her.” Memories flooded back like a burst dam.

Patricia’s hateful glares all evening. Her frequent trips to “powder her nose.” Her insistence that David have more tea.

Her pointed avoidance of Sarah at the preliminary hearings, while whispering to Michael. Then Michael’s letters, growing colder and more distant. “Mom says you should confess. Mom thinks we should hold off on visits. Mom believes…” Always Mom, controlling her grown son’s life.

And now, a mistress in the apartment. Probably another of Mom’s picks. Sarah carefully placed the purple nail in a small paperclip box she found in the desk and tucked it into her pocket.

This was evidence. Undeniable proof that Patricia had touched the jacket where the poison was found. Sarah took a deep breath, steadying herself.

The first step was done—she had a lead. Now she had to proceed carefully and strategically. One fake nail wasn’t enough to prove Patricia’s guilt in a murder.

She needed more evidence. But first, the county clerk’s office. She had to confirm her legal status.

The local county clerk’s office was in an old two-story building with peeling paint. Sarah climbed the creaky steps and entered a stuffy room with a long line to the only open window. “You need a ticket,” said a middle-aged woman at the entrance, not looking up from her knitting.

“Where do I get one?” The woman nodded at a tattered notebook. “Name?”

“Johnson.” “You’re number 123. Wait.”

The line crawled. In three hours, Sarah grew hungry, chilled in the poorly heated room, and mentally cursed the entire bureaucratic system. Finally, her number was called.

“Sarah Elizabeth Johnson,” she introduced herself to the dour clerk. “I need to check my registration status. I was listed at Elm Street, 15, apartment 37.” “ID,” the woman grunted, eyes fixed on her screen.

Sarah handed over her driver’s license. The clerk took it, flipped through it, then clicked something on her computer. A moment later, she looked at Sarah with an odd expression.

“You’re still registered at that address,” she said. “Really?” Sarah couldn’t hide her surprise. “What about a divorce?” “No record of a divorce in your file,” the clerk shrugged. “So, you’re still legally married to…” She glanced at the screen. “Michael David Thompson.”

“Thank you.” Sarah took back her ID with shaking hands. So, Michael hadn’t divorced her? Why? Laziness? Pity? Guilt? It didn’t matter.

The key was, she still had every right to be in that apartment. It was hers and Michael’s joint property, and no bleached mistress could kick her out. Leaving the clerk’s office, Sarah felt a surge of energy.

She headed to the salon where Emily worked. On the way, she grabbed a cheap hot dog from a street vendor and a bottle of water. Her first independent meal as a free woman.

“Charmed Cuts” salon was in a residential building’s basement, but inside it was clean and cozy. A bell jingled above the door, and Sarah spotted Emily working on an elderly client’s hair. “Sarah!” Emily beamed. “Meet my high school friend, Sarah.”..