“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…

“Nice to meet you,” nodded the older woman, half her hair in curlers. “You a stylist too?” “No, I…” Sarah hesitated, unsure how to describe herself. “She’s an accountant,” Emily jumped in. “A great one. Looking for work.” “Oh, my niece just opened a small boutique, and she needs someone good with numbers,” the woman perked up. “I can give you her number.” Emily winked at Sarah. “See? You just got here, and offers are rolling in.” “Thank you,” Sarah said sincerely, taking the business card.

“Is Linda in?” she asked Emily, nodding toward a door marked “Manager.” “Yeah, go on in. I told her about you.” The salon owner, a hefty woman in her fifties with bright red hair, listened to Sarah’s story without interrupting. “So, you just got out,” she said thoughtfully when Sarah finished. “And no one’ll hire you officially because of the conviction?” “Yes, unfortunately.” “Alright, I’ll take you as a janitor. Off the books, of course. Fifty bucks a shift, three nights a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday, after closing. That work?” “More than works,” Sarah exhaled, relieved. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” Linda waved a hand. “I’ve been through my own rough patches. I get starting over. Come tomorrow at seven p.m. I’ll show you the ropes.” Stepping out of the office, Sarah felt hope for the first time in ages.

She had a roof over her head, a job—unofficial, but still—and, most importantly, a clue in the murder investigation. “So, how’d it go?” Emily asked, finishing with her client. “Great. She hired me,” Sarah smiled. “And guess what? I’m still registered at the apartment and legally married to Michael.” “Told you,” Emily said triumphantly. “You’ve got every right to live there. That bleached chick’s just a roommate, nothing more.” “Yeah, but…” Sarah lowered her voice. “There’s something else. I found evidence, Emily, proof that Patricia planted the poison.” She pulled out the box and showed her friend the purple nail.

“That’s hers?” Emily gasped. “My God, so it was her.” “Shh,” Sarah glanced around. “Probably. But one nail isn’t enough. I need her to confess.” “How’re you gonna do that?” Sarah clenched her fists. “Tomorrow, I’m paying Patricia a visit. We’ll see what she says when she sees this.”

“Sarah, be careful,” Emily said, concerned. “If she really killed her ex-husband and framed you, she’s dangerous.” “Don’t worry,” Sarah smirked. “Seven years in prison taught me to be very careful.”

That night, lying on the narrow bed in Emily’s room, Sarah ran through her plan for confronting Patricia. Patricia lived alone in a two-bedroom apartment downtown, a place she got in the divorce. David had insisted she have her own home, though legally he could’ve left her with nothing. Sleep wouldn’t come. Sarah thought of Michael, the husband who lacked the courage to visit her in prison.

Who believed she was guilty and brought another woman into their home. Who was so under his mother’s thumb that he let her ruin their lives. And she thought of Patricia, a woman willing to kill for her selfish goals, capable of framing an innocent person and destroying a life without remorse.

Sarah gripped the box with the purple nail. This tiny piece of plastic was her key to retribution, to the justice she’d been denied. “Tomorrow,” she whispered into the dark, “it all begins.”

Rain pattered on the window outside, the drops drumming like a countdown to the confrontation that would set everything straight. The morning was damp and gray.

Wet pavement gleamed under the weak October sun. Sarah stood at the bus stop, clutching the box with the nail in her pocket.

She knew Patricia’s address by heart: Main Street, 23, apartment 15. How many Sunday dinners had she endured there, forcing smiles through Patricia’s jabs about her “common” background?

The bus was late. Sarah shifted from foot to foot, catching her reflection in a puddle. Worn jacket, overgrown hair, gaunt face.

Seven years ago, men turned to look at her. Now, she looked every bit of her 35 years, and then some. “Whatever,” she muttered, adjusting her collar. “Not here for a beauty pageant.” The old city bus finally pulled up. The interior was nearly empty—just a couple of retirees by the window and a dour man with a battered briefcase. Sarah took a seat at the back and pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Her thoughts moved sluggishly, heavy as the gray clouds outside.

What would she say to Patricia? How would she steer the conversation? Would the nail be enough to make her crack? And if not, what then? Her heart pounded as she entered the building on Main Street. Five flights of stairs—no elevator, as usual. On the fifth-floor landing, she paused to catch her breath and steel herself.

Apartment 15’s door looked the same as seven years ago—dark brown with a gilded number and a peephole. Sarah wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and pressed the doorbell. A long chime echoed inside.

Silence. No one answered. She rang again, longer, more insistent. Shuffling steps approached, then a cracked, elderly voice. “Who’s there?” Sarah didn’t recognize it. Had she gotten the address wrong? “Patricia, it’s Sarah. Please open the door.”

A pause, then the sound of a chain sliding back. The door cracked open, and Sarah froze in shock. Before her stood a shriveled, hunched old woman.

Gray hair in a messy bun, sunken cheeks, dull eyes. Only a gaudy lilac robe hinted at the old Patricia, the polished, confident woman who’d always obsessed over her appearance. “You’re here,” the woman rasped, stepping back into the hallway. “I knew you’d come.”

Sarah stepped inside, closing the door. The apartment reeked of medicine and unwashed laundry. Boxes were piled in the hallway corner, and a scattering of pill bottles littered a side table.

“What happened?” Sarah blurted. “Are you sick?” Patricia gave a bitter smirk. “What did you expect? Seven years is a long time. I’m 69, honey. At my age, illness is the only loyal companion.” She shuffled into the living room, sank heavily into an armchair, and gestured for Sarah to sit across from her.

“What do you want? Revenge?” Sarah scanned the room. Once stylish, it now looked neglected—dust on the furniture, wilted flowers on the sill, faded curtains. Photos of Michael as a kid still lined the sideboard, joined by new ones of a middle-aged man and his family, probably Michael’s cousin from the wedding. “I came to talk,” Sarah said, pulling out the box. “About the past.”..