“Yes, that’s me,” I said, confused.
He looked at me for a long moment before saying something that froze me to the core.
“You’re suspected of murd*r.”
My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Murd*r?! I tried to explain that I had only helped her carry her bags, but the officers were convinced I had been the last person to see her alive.
They showed me footage from a security camera near her home. It clearly showed me carrying her bags, following her through the gate. After that, she was never seen again.
I was taken to the station and questioned for hours. I kept repeating the same thing — that I had only helped and then left. They didn’t believe me. I spent the night in a cell, wide awake, replaying every detail in my mind.
The next day, the results of the investigation came in. That same night, another man had entered the house — her own son, with whom she often argued about her inheritance.
The neighbors had heard them fighting but didn’t think much of it. He had strangled his mother and fled, leaving behind traces that the police later discovered.
When they finally released me, the officer apologized. But inside, I felt only cold and fear — because without those fingerprints and surveillance videos, I could have been condemned forever for a crime I didn’t commit.
