The prison allowed a final visit. My younger brother Ethan was eight now, small for his age, clutching the sleeve of his blue sweater like it could hold him together.
Our mom knelt as much as the chains allowed. She looked fragile, thinner than I remembered—but her eyes were still hers.
“I’m sorry I won’t get to see you grow up,” she whispered.
Ethan threw his arms around her.
And then, barely audible, he said:
“Mom… I know who put the knife under your bed.”
Everything stopped.
My mother stiffened. I felt it before I understood it.
A guard stepped closer. “What did you say?”
Ethan started crying. “I saw him… that night. It wasn’t Mom.”
The room went cold.
The warden raised his hand immediately. “Stop the procedure.”
There was someone else in the room.
My uncle—Victor Hayes. My dad’s younger brother.
He had come “to say goodbye.”
But now his face had gone pale. He took a step back, already turning toward the door.
Ethan pointed at him.
“It was him! He told me if I said anything, he’d make my sister disappear too.”
My breath caught in my throat.
