Chapter 4
The morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains of Michael's bedroom, casting soft golden rays across his still form. I pulled on my silk robe and approached his bed.
"Good morning, Michael," I whispered, settling into the chair beside his bed.
My fingers found the bottle of massage oil on the nightstand – something I'd ordered online after discovering how neglected his muscles had become. "Time for your therapy."
I started with his arms, working my fingers along the atrophied muscles.
As I massaged his left hand, working each finger to prevent the joints from stiffening, something made me freeze. The slightest tremor – so subtle I almost missed it. His index finger had moved. Just barely, but it had moved.
"Michael?" I breathed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Can you feel me touching you? If you can hear me, please give me a sign."
I waited, holding my breath, searching his face for any flicker of consciousness. His features remained peaceful, unchanged.
Maybe I'd imagined it. Prison had taught me to see signs where none existed, to read hope into shadows.
After finishing Michael's care routine, I made my way to his private study.
I'd been systematically going through Michael's files, and today I struck gold.
Hidden behind a row of law books was a manila folder labeled "Commercial Fire Case" in Michael's precise handwriting.
The contents were like looking into my own nightmare through someone else's eyes. Newspaper clippings about the fire, official reports, witness statements.
At the bottom of the folder, I found a USB drive labeled "Backup Security Footage."
My heart stopped. Security footage from the night of the fire – footage that apparently showed something different from what had been presented in court.
I plugged the drive into Michael's computer.
There was Amanda, clear as day, walking toward the commercial district at 9:47 PM – forty-three minutes before she claimed to have been home with a migraine. The timestamp was unmistakable.
But it was Michael's handwritten notes that really broke my heart:
[Fire started in storage room, not main hall as reported... Lisa Mitchell framed... need more evidence to prove Amanda Miller's involvement... Jake Morrison clearly committed perjury... Lisa is innocent.]
"Michael, you knew," I whispered to the empty room. "You've been investigating this case. You knew I was innocent."
The discovery triggered something buried deep in my memory. Suddenly, I was back in that courtroom eight years ago, reliving the nightmare that destroyed my life.
*Amanda sat in the front row, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I can't believe Lisa would do this," she sobbed to the prosecutor.
Then Jake took the stand. My Jake – the man who'd told me he loved me just weeks before. He looked right at me as he spoke.
"I saw the defendant near the mall's rear exit around 10:30 PM," he testified, his voice steady and sure. "She was acting suspicious, lighting something with what looked like a lighter, then she ran."
"That's not true!" I'd shouted, jumping to my feet. "Jake, you know that's not true!"
But the gavel came down.
"Lisa, the evidence is overwhelming. The lighter with your fingerprints, the gasoline residue on your clothes, Jake's testimony..."
"I didn't do it!" I'd cried, but no one was listening anymore.
The memory faded, leaving me gasping and shaking in Michael's chair. The betrayal still felt fresh, like an open wound that refused to heal.
A soft chime from the security system pulled me back to the present.
I glanced at the security monitor, and Amanda stood at the front door.
I took a deep breath, smoothing my expression into careful neutrality, and went downstairs.
"Lisa, darling!" Amanda's voice dripped with false warmth as I opened the door. "I hope you don't mind me dropping by. I was so worried about you."
She swept past me into the foyer like she owned the place, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. I watched her perform her concern, the way she tilted her head and softened her voice.
"Oh, you poor thing." Amanda's smile didn't reach her eyes. "It must be so... lonely. Living with someone who can't even acknowledge your existence. I worry about the psychological impact."
There it was – the subtle knife twist. She was testing me, looking for cracks in my composure.
"Michael is excellent company. He's a good listener," I said.
Amanda's expression flickered for just a moment – so briefly I almost missed it. Fear. She was afraid of what I might know, what Michael might have told me before his accident.
"Lisa, sweetheart," Amanda's voice took on a patronizing edge, "I hope you're not... dwelling on the past. Sometimes people who've been through trauma can become fixated on things that aren't real. If you ever need someone to talk to about your mental health..."
"Thank you for your concern," I replied smoothly. "But I've never been clearer about what's real and what isn't."
After Amanda left, Jake showed up in his fire department SUV, claiming he needed to conduct a "routine safety inspection."
I followed him as he stomped through the house, ostensibly checking smoke detectors.
"Lisa, eight years in prison clearly affected your judgment," he said. "We're all concerned about your mental state."
He turned to face me, and for a moment, I saw the scared boy beneath the uniform. "I'm reminding you that if your behavior becomes concerning, the law has ways of dealing with mentally unstable individuals."
"Jake Morrison," I said quietly, "are you threatening me? In my husband's house?"
"Get out." My voice was deadly calm. "Now."
That night, I sat beside Michael's bed in the darkness, holding his hand and finally letting myself break.
The words poured out of me – eight years of suppressed truth and pain. I told him about my parents, how they couldn't live with the shame of having a daughter convicted of murder. How they'd left me a note saying they believed in my innocence but couldn't bear the weight of the world's judgment.
"She destroyed everything I loved," I continued, my voice breaking. "My family, my future, my faith in justice."
As I spoke, I felt it again – the slightest pressure on my fingers. His hand tightened around mine, so gently I might have imagined it. But when I looked at his face, I could have sworn I saw his eyelids flutter.
"Michael?" I breathed. "Can you hear me? Please, if you're in there, give me a sign."
For a moment, the room was silent except for the soft hum of medical equipment. Then, almost imperceptibly, his fingers squeezed mine again.