Chapter 2

The interrogation room was small, grey, and cold.

Detective Harding sat across from Sarah, his gaze unwavering.

"Let's go over it again, Mrs. Miller. What were you doing when your daughter was killed?"

"I told you," Sarah said, her voice trembling, "I was in the lobby. I tried to make a phone call. My client, for my graphic design work."

Harding steepled his fingers.

"We found no record of any outgoing calls from your phone during that time. No attempted calls. Nothing."

"The reception was bad," Sarah insisted, "It didn't go through."

"Mr. Peterson, the art instructor, says you seemed agitated when you dropped Emily off. He said you were 'not yourself'."

Sarah shook her head. "No, I was fine. Emily was excited about the class."

"He also said you insisted Emily work on a specific, messy art project. One she disliked."

"That's not true. Emily chose her projects."

"And he claims you brought a large, dark duffel bag into the community center."

"I didn't have a duffel bag," Sarah cried, "I had my purse. That's all."

Harding leaned forward. "The security footage shows someone matching your description with a duffel bag."

"It wasn't me!"

The door opened. Mark, her husband, walked in.

His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed.

For a moment, relief washed over Sarah. Mark would tell them. He knew her.

Then he looked at her.

His expression hardened into something she didn't recognize.

Pain, yes, but also accusation.

"Sarah," he said, his voice breaking, "How could you?"

He turned to Harding. "She did it. I can't believe it, but she did it."

Then, back to Sarah, his voice raw with anguish and fury.

"Where is her head, Sarah? Where did you hide Emily's head?"

The question, so brutal, so direct, shattered what little composure Sarah had left.

"Mark, no! I didn't do this! You know me!"

"I thought I did," he said, his voice cold now, "But your postpartum depression... it was severe. You had thoughts... about hurting her when she was a baby."

Sarah stared at him, horrified.

He was using that against her. That dark time, years ago, after Emily was born.

The exhaustion, the overwhelming fear, the fleeting, terrible thoughts she' d confessed to a doctor, terrified of herself.

She' d gotten help. She' d recovered. She loved Emily more than life itself.

"That was years ago, Mark! I got better! I would never hurt Emily!"

Harding was watching, his expression grim.

"Your husband informed us about your psychiatric hold. About the harmful thoughts you expressed."

The past, her deepest vulnerability, was being twisted into a motive.

The police, the media, and now her own husband.

Everyone believed she was a monster.

Despair, cold and absolute, settled over her.

She was trapped.

The evidence, the witnesses, Mark's betrayal.

Her own past, weaponized.

Online, the "Monster Mom" narrative exploded.

Her photo, Emily's photo, side-by-side.

Comments filled with hate, with certainty of her guilt.

She felt herself begin to doubt.

Could she have blacked out? Could she have done something so monstrous and not remember?

The thought was a new kind of terror.

Her credibility was gone, undermined by everyone she should have been able to trust.

The weight of it all pressed down on her, crushing her.