Chapter 3

David went home to get Emily. I waited at the hospital.

The hallway was crowded, full of hurried footsteps and muffled crying.

I sat alone on a cold bench, feeling completely cut off from the world.

Rachel was in the observation room. I could hear her crying through the door.

She was still performing, playing the shattered godmother, playing the poor, tragic driver who had made a terrible mistake.

The performance was good. If I hadn't known Emily was safe at home, I might have believed her.

My heart kept sinking, inch by inch, into something cold and black.

I had known her for ten years. In college, we were inseparable. After graduation, we had each other's backs through everything.

When I got married, she was my maid of honor. When I was pregnant, she was more anxious than I was.

When Emily was born, she was the first one into the delivery room. She scooped up that tiny, wrinkled baby and wept.

She always said Emily was her daughter, too. That she would love her like her own.

I had believed her. After my family, she was the most important person in my life.

I had shared every secret with her. I had laid every vulnerability bare before her.

But she turned every bit of that trust into a blade and drove it straight into my back.

Who was the dead child? Why was she dressed like my daughter? Emily's dress. Emily's hair clip. Emily's backpack. And why were there school books in that backpack, with my daughter's name on them? How had Rachel done this? And why?

The questions kept coming, one after another, wrapping tighter and tighter around my throat.

Marcus walked over and sat down beside me. He handed me a bottle of water. "Here. Drink something."

I shook my head.

He was silent for a moment, then said, "I've been doing this job for thirty years. I've seen more lies than I can count. But a case this strange? I've never seen anything like it."

He studied me for a moment. "Mrs. Saunders, may I ask you a few questions?"

"Go ahead," I said.

"Have you and Rachel had any conflicts recently?" he asked.

I thought about it, then shook my head. "No. We've always been close. My husband even got jealous sometimes."

"What about money? Any financial disputes?"

"No, nothing like that."

We never talked about money. I ran a small flower shop, and my earnings were decent. Rachel was a corporate executive, and she made far more than I did.

"Then what about her mental health? Anything in her history?" he continued.

"Not that I ever saw."

Marcus's frown deepened. "That's strange. To plan a murder and frame her best friend for it, she would need something driving her. A deep hatred. A financial stake. Some kind of madness. One of those, at least."

When he said the word "murder," I felt my heart stop for a beat.

He was right. This wasn't an accident. It was murder, planned and deliberate, and the target was my daughter. If Emily hadn't been home with a fever today, she would have been the one under those wheels.

Now, another child, an innocent, had died instead. Just thinking about it made my whole body turn cold.

"She's still very agitated," Marcus said. "She says it over and over. That you killed Emily. That you didn't want to take care of her. That you thought of her as a burden."

My nails bit into my palms.

"She also said..." Marcus looked me in the eye. "She said you had postpartum depression and never recovered. And that you had shown tendencies. Toward Emily."

My breath caught. The postpartum depression was real. Those first months with Emily were a black hole. I was sure I was a terrible mother. I thought I had doomed her. Brought her into a world that would only cause her pain.

Back then, Rachel stayed with me. She talked me through the worst of it, held me when I cried, and made me go to the doctor.

I had thought she was my rescuer. But now she had taken my darkest moments and twisted them into a weapon to use against me.

That was the label she was trying to pin on me. A crazy mother. A danger to her own child.

If my daughter had really died, Rachel's story would have directed all the blame squarely at me.

Everyone would believe it. The depressed mother finally broke and plotted her own daughter's death. And Rachel would be the innocent one. The friend I used. The scapegoat.

That was vicious. Deeply, thoroughly vicious.

My back was drenched in cold sweat.

Just then, I saw two familiar figures at the far end of the hallway.

David was striding toward me, Emily in his arms.

Emily had probably just woken up, her eyes heavy with sleep. She was in her pink pajamas, her head resting on David's shoulder as she rubbed her sleepy eyes.

When she saw me, her eyes lit up. "Mommy!" she called out in her soft voice, reaching her arms out for me.

I jumped up and rushed over, pulling her into my arms and holding her as tightly as I could.

She was warm and soft in my arms, her skin carrying that familiar, faint, sweet scent.

For the first time since the call, my heart finally settled.

I held her tight, turned, and walked toward the observation room. Marcus and David followed behind.

I pushed open the door and saw that Rachel was still crying.

Her eyes found me, and the venom there deepened. "Julia! How dare you come back? You murderer!" The words tore out of her.

I didn't answer her. I carried Emily across the room and set her down on the floor, facing Rachel. "Emily, look. Who is that?"

Emily looked at Rachel's tear-streaked, twisted face. She pressed herself back against my legs and whispered, "It's... it's Rachel."