Before I was sentenced, she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “If your son hadn’t died, I’d never have a chance with Charlton. I kept that surgical footage as a trophy. I watch it whenever I feel like it. It’s exhilarating!”
My eyes snapped open at the memory, and my voice cut like ice.
“That bitch definitely still has it.”
Alan’s tone turned grim. “That’s great. If we can secure that footage, our chances will be higher.”
I hung up, my chest heaving as though my lungs might tear apart.
I was locked up in jail for five long years.
Five years ago, my own husband, Charlton Cohen, both an anesthesiologist and the man I once trusted most, testified falsely against me in court and sent me behind bars.
For those five years, he never visited me once.
And today, the day of my release, he was not there either.
Alone, I hailed a cab and went back to the villa that used to be our home.
I had not even decided what I would say when I saw him again before my eyes fell upon the scene in the courtyard.
Mariam stood there, cradling a three-year-old boy in her arms, laughing and playing with Charlton as though they were a family.