Another found the handgun near the desk.
They photographed my bloody clothing.
They examined the fingerprints on the weapon.
And before sunrise, I was sitting inside an interrogation room being accused of murder.
The investigating detective was Daniel Price, a respected officer who had spent nearly twenty years with the department.
He spoke calmly, which somehow made his accusations worse.
“You argued with Arthur Bell over money.”
I shook my head.
“No, we didn’t.”
“You were the last person seen entering his house.”
“Because he called me.”
“Your fingerprints are on the gun.”
“Because I moved it away from him.”
Price leaned forward.
“Elena, the evidence isn’t going away.”
I started crying.
“Please, check his telephone records.”
He closed the folder.
“We already know enough.”
That sentence haunted me for five years.
The police never seemed interested in discovering what Arthur had been investigating.
They focused instead on proving that I was guilty.
