They took me in for questioning.
Hour after hour, I repeated the same thing: I had helped her, then I had left.
They didn’t believe me.
I spent the night in a cell, unable to sleep, replaying the scene over and over, wondering how a simple act of kindness could have turned into a nightmare.
The next morning, new evidence surfaced.
Another person had entered the house later that night: her own son.
Neighbors had heard screams but hadn’t paid any attention.
He had argued with her about money and, in a fit of rage, had strangled her before fleeing.
His fingerprints and the traces left at the scene incriminated him beyond doubt.
When the police finally released me, the detective apologized.
But the chill that gripped me never left.
Without that camera and the scientific evidence, I could have been convicted of a crime I didn’t commit—simply for trying to help
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