Chapter 1: Midnight Knock

It was past midnight when the cops hammered on my door like they meant to break it down.

The pounding yanked me out of a half-sleep, the cheap lamp on my nightstand still flickering. I staggered across the worn hardwood, heart jackhammering, barely remembering to grab my robe. My dog, Jasper, whined from the foot of my bed. His nails clicked on the hardwood, a nervous rhythm under the siren glow. The two officers stood on my porch, badges glinting under the porch light, faces set and unreadable. Red-and-blue flashes from their cruiser painted the siding in wild, pulsing streaks.

They told me a mother had accused me of molesting her three-year-old daughter.

The words hit me like a body blow—molestation, three-year-old, my name. My mouth dried up, tongue stuck to my teeth, and all I could hear was my own blood roaring in my ears. Officer Larkin spoke quietly but firmly, reading me my rights with the practiced calm of a hundred night calls, while his partner, Officer Martinez, stepped inside. I barely had time to pull on my battered Ohio State sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants—still in my slippers—before they marched me out. The neighbors' porch lights flicked on. Somebody’s blinds snapped shut, but not before I caught the gleam of a cell phone camera.

I didn’t even have time to change out of my slippers before they hauled me straight down to the station.

The station was cold and buzzing with fluorescent light, that sharp antiseptic smell that never quite leaves government buildings. The fingerprint scanner left a ghostly ink on my fingertips. I sat on a hard plastic chair, shivering under the AC, waiting for someone—anyone—to believe me. My thoughts tangled with dread and disbelief, every second stretching out like a lifetime.