My husband hesitated for a moment. Then, with a calm face, he replied, “She’s the new nanny.”
Rage burned through me, hotter than anything I had ever known. But I did not cry. I did not scream. I bit down on the word nanny and swallowed it whole, forcing myself to accept the role. Quietly, I vowed that I would dig through the buried evidence of five years past and find justice for my son.
The irony was almost laughable. The woman who ruined my life now had a son of her own—and the boy suffered from a neurological disease.
One day, she grabbed me by the hair, shoving my head down, her voice shrill with desperation. “Save him! Save my son!”
I raised my damaged right hand and let out a soft, mocking laugh.
“Sorry,” I said coldly. “This hand? You destroyed it five years ago!”
1
Arizona’s POV
The day I walked out of prison, the sky was heavy with clouds.
Dressed in nothing but a worn prison uniform and clutching a cheap phone, I dialed the number I had been yearning to call for five long years.
“Atty. Spence, I want to overturn the case—the one from five years ago. I’ll make them pay for what they did, even if it costs me everything!”