▶ Synopsis
Clara Jennings’ nightmare deepens as every trace of her innocence vanishes. News reports and even her own sister insist she was the defendant, not the witness. When she searches for her trial notes, she instead finds a manila folder containing forged journal pages in her handwriting—pages that confess to murder.
Desperate, Clara confronts the prosecutor, only to be told her own testimony convicted her. The word “sentencing” echoes like a death knell. Before she can gather her thoughts, officers arrive to arrest her. Overwhelmed by fear and disbelief, Clara bolts, running from a system that has already branded her guilty.
Clara’s apartment felt smaller than ever, walls pressing inward as she scrolled through article after article. Each one said the same thing. Clara Jennings, accused of murdering Evelyn Marsh. Clara Jennings, found guilty after damning testimony.
Her own face stared back from the screen, eyes wide, lips pursed mid-sentence on the witness stand. Only now, the captions painted her as the killer.
Her stomach lurched. She slammed the phone down and scrambled for her files—her notes from trial prep, the neat binders she had built while working for the DA. They were gone. In their place, on the desk where she swore she had left them, sat a manila folder.
Her name was scrawled across the tab in red marker. Inside: photocopied pages of handwritten journal entries. All written in her handwriting.
April 23. She was in the way. He would never leave her. I had no choice.
Clara shoved the papers back, bile rising in her throat. “That’s not me. That’s not mine.”
She yanked her phone again and dialed her sister.
“Clara?” Anna’s voice was tight, cautious. “What’s going on? The news is everywhere—”
“Anna, listen. It’s wrong. I wasn’t the defendant, I was the witness. I testified against him. You remember that, right? You were there. You hugged me after court!”
Silence.
“Clara…” Anna’s tone dropped, heavy with pity. “You need to stop. You confessed. I sat through every word. You—”
“Stop.” Clara’s voice cracked, raw. “You know me, you know me—”
But Anna was crying now. “I can’t do this again. I warned you they’d twist it, but you admitted it yourself. You killed her!”
The call ended. Clara stared at the phone, her hand numb.
She needed help. Proof. The DA’s office—someone there would confirm it. She pulled on yesterday’s clothes and rushed out the door.
The courthouse loomed gray and cold against the morning sky. She pushed through the metal detectors, ignoring the guard’s narrowed eyes, and found the prosecutor’s office on the second floor.
Assistant District Attorney Wallace was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand. He looked up, startled when she barged in.
“Clara. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Tell me the truth,” she demanded. “I was the witness. Not the defendant. You know that.”
He set the coffee down slowly. “Clara… you confessed on the stand. We all heard you. That testimony—your testimony—convicted you.”
Her mouth went dry. “That’s not what happened.”
Wallace leaned back, eyes narrowing as if studying a fragile patient. “You need to speak to your attorney. This obsession—it’s not going to help your sentencing.”
Sentencing.
The word rattled through her chest like a death knell.
Before she could respond, two uniformed officers appeared at the door. Wallace nodded toward her. “She’s here.”
Her pulse spiked. She backed up, hands trembling.
“Ms. Jennings,” one officer said, calm but firm. “You need to come with us.”
Clara’s breath caught. The hallway stretched too long, too bright, an escape she’d never reach. She turned and ran.