You are a suspect in the murder of a woman. My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Murder?! I tried to explain that I had only helped her carry her bags, but the police were convinced that I was the last person to see her alive. They showed me footage from a surveillance camera near her house.
There I was — with her bags, walking behind her through the gate. After that frame, she never appeared again. I was taken to the police station and interrogated for hours.
I kept repeating the same thing: I helped her and then left. They didn’t believe me. I spent the night in a cell, sleepless, replaying every moment in my head.
The next day, the results of the investigation came in. It turned out that later that night, another man had entered the house — her son, with whom she constantly argued over inheritance. Neighbors had heard the quarrel but didn’t pay attention.
He was the one who strangled his mother and fled, leaving behind traces that the police later found. When I was finally released, the officer apologized. But inside, I was left with nothing but cold and fear — because if not for the cameras and the fingerprints, I might have remained forever guilty of a crime I never committed.
