Then early the next morning, sirens woke me up—right outside my house.
My heart dropped.
A sharp knock hit my door. When I opened it, a sheriff stood there, two patrol cars behind him.
“Ma’am,” he said calmly, “we need to ask you a few questions about Mrs. Carter.”
My stomach twisted. “What happened?”
He paused. “She was found dead this morning.”
Everything went silent.
“I… I just helped her yesterday,” I whispered.
“We know,” he said. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”
My knees started shaking. “Did I do something wrong? I only mowed her lawn—”
“Then you won’t mind explaining this,” he cut in.
He pointed at my mailbox.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Open it yourself.”
My hands trembled so badly I could barely lift the lid. I had no idea what I was about to find.
But the moment I saw it—
I screamed.
Let me tell you what was inside that mailbox—and what Mrs. Carter had done.
My name is Emily Parker. I’m thirty-two, thirty-four weeks pregnant, and on the brink of losing my home.
Yesterday, I mowed my 82-year-old neighbor’s lawn. Mrs. Carter. A widow, struggling in the heat.
This morning, a sheriff stood at my door.
“Mrs. Carter was found dead. That’s exactly why we’re here.”
He pointed at my mailbox. “Open it.”
Inside was a heavy envelope. Official-looking. With my name on it.
And a note in shaky handwriting:
“You’re a good girl. Don’t forget that.”
What was inside changed everything.
Let me go back.
Continued on the next page
