“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…

She opened it and placed the purple nail on the table. “Recognize this?” Patricia leaned forward, squinting. Her hand shot to her mouth, and a choked sound—half sob, half groan—filled the room.

“Where? Where’d you find that?” she whispered. “In the jacket. The one with the poison, tucked between the lining and the fabric.” The old woman collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest.

Her face twisted in terror and pain. “God, forgive me,” she croaked. “I thought it was over.”

Sarah stared at the broken woman without pity. Seven years—seven years of her life stolen by this woman. “Tell me everything,” she said quietly but firmly, “from the beginning.”

The story poured out, disjointed, laced with sobs and excuses. How she was fed up with her ex-husband’s demands, how she despised her independent, opinionated future daughter-in-law, how she’d picked out a docile wife for Michael—Jessica, her best friend’s daughter. “I just wanted happiness for Mikey,” Patricia whimpered. “But David ruined everything. Said he’d sign the apartment over to you two after the wedding. What about me? Out on the street?” “You have your own place,” Sarah said coldly.

“This dump?” Patricia gestured at the room. “After his mansion? He made millions on his construction deals, and what did I get? Scraps! I gave him 25 years of my life!” The tale grew darker. Patricia confessed to killing two birds with one stone—eliminating David and framing Sarah.

She’d bought the poison through a nurse friend, slipped it into David’s tea at the memorial, and hid the baggie in Sarah’s jacket while she was in the shower. One nail broke off as she stuffed the poison into the lining, she sobbed. “I looked everywhere for it, terrified they’d find it, but it stayed there.”

“And you felt no guilt?” Sarah asked softly. “Seven years I spent in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.” Patricia lifted her tear-streaked face. “I regretted it later,” she whispered. “Honest, I did. But it was too late. You were locked up, and I kept quiet. Mikey would’ve hated me, and I’d have faced prison.” “Not just prison,” Sarah said grimly. “Murder and framing an innocent person? That’s fifteen years, minimum.” The old woman shrank in her chair, as if trying to disappear.

“What now?” she whispered. “You gonna turn me in?” Sarah met her eyes. Before her sat a pathetic, broken shell of the commanding Patricia she’d known. Age, illness, and maybe the weight of her crime had done their work. “I don’t know,” Sarah said honestly. “I should, but…” “Please, don’t.” Patricia slid from the chair to her knees, reaching out with trembling hands. “I’m begging you! I don’t have long. Bad heart, failing kidneys. I’m punished every day with pain.” “And me?” Sarah asked sharply. “Who gives me back seven years? My youth? My chance to have kids?” “I’ll give you everything!” Patricia whispered feverishly. “All I have!” She staggered to the sideboard, pulled out a jewelry box, and opened it with shaking hands.

Gold gleamed inside—chains, rings, earrings. “It’s yours, and there’s money too.” She yanked open another drawer, revealing a stack of bills. “Here, almost ten grand. Last of what I got from selling my vacation lot. Take it!” Sarah stared at the pathetic attempt to buy her off with disgust. “You think this makes up for a ruined life?” “I know it doesn’t,” Patricia sobbed, dropping the money to the floor. “But what else can I do? I’m an old, sick woman. I’d die in prison in a month.” Sarah stayed silent, eyeing the scattered bills. Revenge didn’t feel as satisfying as she’d imagined.

She’d pictured this moment countless times on her prison bunk—Patricia begging for mercy, herself cold and unforgiving. But reality was just sad. “What about Michael?” she asked finally. “Did he know?” Patricia shook her head. “No, I swear. He had no idea. I… I convinced him you were guilty. Told him I saw you slip something into Dad’s tea. He didn’t want to believe it, but…” “But he did,” Sarah finished. “Of course he did. Mommy knows best.”

“He loved you,” the old woman said softly. “So much. That first year after your arrest, he drank himself sick. I thought he’d spiral. Then he threw himself into work. And that…” She grimaced. “Ashley showed up three years ago. I didn’t approve, but he stopped listening to me as much.” “Why didn’t he divorce me?” “I don’t know,” Patricia shrugged. “Maybe deep down he didn’t believe you did it? Or he was waiting for you? Ask him yourself.” Sarah stood. The conversation was over.

She’d gotten what she came for—a confession. Now she had to decide what to do with it. “I’m going,” she said, heading for the door. “Wait!” Patricia lunged after her, grabbing her sleeve. “What’s your decision? You turning me in?” Sarah freed her arm. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “I need to think.” “Please,” the old woman whispered, sinking to the floor. “I’m already punished.”

Sarah left without looking back. On the landing, she leaned against the wall, trying to stop her knees from shaking. A storm of emotions raged inside—anger, bitterness, a strange emptiness. She reached the bus stop on autopilot.

The weather had worsened, a fine, miserable drizzle falling from a leaden sky. Sarah stood under the stop’s awning, staring blankly at passing cars, processing what she’d heard. Patricia had confessed to murder.

Sarah had proof. The purple nail. She could go to the police right now.

But what would that achieve? Lock up a sick old woman for a few years? She looked frail—prison would kill her quickly. And a seven-year-old case would be hard to reopen with just a confession. The bus pulled up, splashing her jeans with puddle water. Sarah boarded and took her usual window seat. “Maybe just let it go?” a thought whispered.

Claim her share of the apartment, start fresh, let Patricia’s conscience and God judge her. But another part of her—the one that endured seven years of humiliation and loss—rebelled. “No! She has to face the law!” A payphone gleamed in the dusk at the street corner.

Sarah got off a stop early and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked to it. She dialed 911. “Police?” Her voice was oddly calm. “I want to report a confession to a murder committed seven years ago.” The dispatcher took Patricia’s address and promised a unit would arrive within the hour. “Will you be there?” he asked.

“No,” Sarah replied. “I’ve said what I needed to. They can handle it from here.”

She hung up and walked slowly toward the salon. She had her first janitorial shift and wasn’t about to be late. The evening passed in monotonous work—mopping floors, cleaning mirrors, sweeping hair. Linda was pleased. “Good job, you’re used to hard work. Come back day after tomorrow, same time.” Sarah thanked her and stepped outside. It was fully dark, the rain still falling…