“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 wandered the empty streets, reflecting on the day. Patricia’s confession, the call to the police. What next? Would they arrest her? Believe her story? Back at Emily’s, her friend greeted her with a hot dinner and news. “Guess what? Your Michael called, looking for you.” Sarah froze, fork halfway to her mouth. “How’d he get your number?” “No clue,” Emily shrugged. “Maybe from neighbors? I’m still in the same building as seven years ago.” “What did he want?” “Said he needs to talk, urgently. Left his number.” Emily handed her a scrap of paper. “Sounded rattled.”

Sarah set the fork down, appetite gone. Had Patricia called Michael before the police arrived? Or had the cops already contacted him as a relative? “I’m not calling,” she said firmly. “Not now. Let him stew.” “Your call,” Emily didn’t argue. “But he sounded really shaken. Said he went to your apartment looking for you.”

Sarah gave a wry smile. “Probably his bleached girlfriend told him about my visit. Now he’s worried.” Sleep eluded her that night. She tossed on the narrow bed, listening to the old building’s creaks. Her mind replayed the conversation, Patricia’s fear-stricken face.

And thoughts of Michael. What did he know? What did he want to talk about? At dawn, she drifted into a fitful sleep, only to be jolted awake by pounding on the door. “Sarah!” Emily’s voice was panicked. “Get up, quick!” She flung open the door. Emily stood there, pale, clutching a newspaper, eyes wide with shock.

“What’s wrong?” “Here,” Emily thrust the paper at her, open to the crime section. “Read.” The headline screamed in bold: “Death Downtown: Elderly Woman Dies of Heart Attack.” Last night, in an apartment at 23 Main Street, 69-year-old Patricia T. Thompson was found dead…

Preliminary reports cite a massive heart attack as the cause. Neighbors called police after hearing a disturbance. Officers found a note in which the woman confessed to murdering her ex-husband seven years ago.

An investigation is underway. Sarah sank onto the bed, the paper slipping from her hands. “My God,” she whispered, “she’s dead.”

“You were at her place yesterday, right?” Emily asked softly. Sarah nodded, speechless. “And she confessed?” “Yes,” Sarah exhaled, “to everything. I… I called the police, reported it…” Emily sat beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You’re not to blame. She chose her path. Her heart couldn’t handle the shame and fear.”

Sarah buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted the truth to come out.” “It did,” Emily squeezed her hand. “Now everyone will know you’re innocent. That’s what matters.” Sarah nodded slowly. A strange mix of emptiness and relief washed over her.

Patricia was dead, but the truth had surfaced. She could start rebuilding her life, piece by piece. “What now?” Emily asked after a pause. “Gonna call Michael?” “No,” Sarah shook her head. “Let him come to me. But first, I need to check something.”

She pulled the purple nail from her jacket pocket—the only physical evidence against Patricia. With her dead, this plastic fragment was a silent witness to her crime. “I want to know what she wrote in that note,” Sarah said. “If she detailed her confession, my name will be officially cleared. If not, I’ll push to reopen the case with this nail and testimony from her neighbors, who probably overheard us.” All day, Sarah made calls from a payphone—prosecutor’s office, police department, her old lawyer.

Responses were vague, but everyone agreed the case would be revisited given the new evidence. That evening, back at Emily’s, she found a note on the table. “Michael came by, begged to talk. Said he’ll wait at Cozy Corner Café till eight. I’m at Mom’s in the suburbs, back tomorrow. Keys under the mat if you go out. Love, Emily.”..