I was seventeen when the verdict was announced.
My father had been discovered dead in our kitchen. A single stab wound. No sign of forced entry. The weapon—bloody, unmistakable—was found beneath my mother’s bed.
There was blood on her robe. Her fingerprints on the handle.
To everyone else, it was straightforward.
“She did it.”
I didn’t say those words out loud. But I let them settle inside me.
That was my guilt.
For six years, my mom—Caroline Hayes—wrote to me from prison.
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