Chapter 3
Without Jake's angry shouting and Amanda's fake tears cluttering the air, I could finally breathe.
I was now Lisa Crown.
I dragged my worn duffel bag up the mahogany staircase toward Michael's bedroom
The master bedroom door creaked open. The air smelled of disinfectant and abandonment—like a hospital room that had given up hope.
Michael lay motionless in the center of it all, his chest rising and falling with mechanical precision. I set my bag down and approached the bed, studying the photo on his nightstand.
Dark hair, sharp jawline, eyes that probably used to sparkle with intelligence. He looked nothing like the hollow shell breathing beside me now.
"Well, husband," I whispered, testing the word. It felt foreign on my tongue. "Looks like the Crown family fortune didn't buy you much love, did it?"
I opened the walk-in closet and nearly gagged. Designer suits hung limp and moldy, their thousand-dollar fabrics rotting from neglect.
The bed sheets were yellow with age, and dust bunnies had claimed territory under the four-poster bed like tiny gray kingdoms.
My jaw clenched as I stripped the bed with violent efficiency. Someone had been collecting a paycheck to "care" for Michael while treating him like garbage.
A knock at the door interrupted my fury. Five women in matching black uniforms filed in like vultures, their expressions ranging from skeptical to openly hostile. The leader—a sharp-faced woman with steel-gray hair—stepped forward.
"Mrs... Crown," she said, practically spitting my new name. "We're here to discuss the household arrangements."
I didn't miss the way they huddled together, whispering just loud enough for me to hear.
"Can you believe it? Marrying a vegetable for money."
"Fresh out of prison and already scheming."
"That poor man doesn't deserve this."
I let them finish their little performance before walking over, my steps deliberate and slow. Eight years in Riverside had taught me that respect was earned through strength, not kindness.
"Ladies," I said, "This is my home now. Michael is my husband. And from this moment forward, nobody—and I mean nobody—enters this bedroom without my permission."
The gray-haired one laughed. "Mrs. Crown, you may have tricked that old man into letting you play house, but we know what you really are. A murderer who thinks marrying a plant will make people forget."
I smiled. Not the warm, people-pleasing smile I used to wear, but the cold expression that had kept me alive behind bars.
I asked, "What's your name?"
The woman replied, "Betty Hutchins. I've worked here for—"
"Betty," I interrupted. "You're fired. Pack your things and get out of my house."
The color drained from her face. "You can't—"
"I just did. Security cameras throughout the house will confirm any theft, so I suggest you only take what's yours." I turned to the others. "Anyone else have comments about my marriage or my character?"
Silence.
I continued, "Perfect. Now get out. I have a husband to take care of."
They shuffled out like scolded children, but I caught the venomous looks they threw over their shoulders. Whatever. I'd dealt with worse than them.
As evening fell, I began what would become my new routine. I'd learned basic medical care from the prison infirmary, and Michael's condition wasn't complex—just neglected. I started with a full assessment, checking his muscle tone, circulation, and skin condition.
That's when I found them.
Dark purple bruises dotted his arms in perfect finger-shaped patterns.
"Jesus Christ, Michael," I breathed. "What did they do to you?"
Rage burned through me like wildfire. He'd actually tried to save lives, and this was his reward?
Later that night, I found myself standing outside Michael's private study. The door was unlocked—apparently, nobody thought a plant had secrets worth protecting. I slipped inside and flicked on the desk lamp.
The mahogany surface was covered with newspaper clippings, all related to the mall fire. My fire. Every headline screamed variations of the same story: [LOCAL WOMAN CONVICTED OF DEADLY ARSON.] But someone had been digging deeper.
I found official fire department reports, insurance documents, and witness statements. Michael had been investigating the case before his accident—and he'd found inconsistencies.
Amanda claimed she wasn't at the mall that night, but three witnesses placed her there.
The fire started in the storage room where only employees had access, yet somehow I was the only suspect. The insurance payout had been expedited in record time.
Then I found it. Tucked in the back of the bottom drawer was a USB drive labeled "TRUTH" in Michael's handwriting.
My heart hammered as I plugged it into his computer. Password protected, of course. I tried everything—his birthday, his mother's maiden name, the date of the fire. Nothing worked.
Then, on impulse, I typed my own birthday.
The files opened like a floodgate.
Bank transfers. Insurance documents. Audio recordings. And at the center of it all—Amanda's real plan.
The recording was dated three months before the fire. Amanda's voice, clear as day: "The naive little small-town girl will be perfect. Everyone already thinks she's ditzy, and her boyfriend's a firefighter. Who's going to question his testimony?"
A male voice—not Jake—responded: "And you're sure she'll be there that night?"
"Oh, I'll make sure of it. Poor Lisa, working late again while I collect the insurance money and disappear. It's almost too easy."
I sat back in the leather chair, processing what I'd just heard. Michael had known. Before his accident, he'd uncovered the entire conspiracy.
So when the whole town turned against me, when my own boyfriend betrayed me on the witness stand, Michael would have known I was innocent. We weren't just strangers bound by a marriage contract.
He'd been protecting me, even when I was rotting in a cell, convinced the world had abandoned me.
I murmured, "Michael, you've gathered all the evidence. You were protecting me, weren't you? Wait for me. I'll avenge you, and myself."