The courtroom erupted. Delilah’s knees buckled as the reality crashed over her like ice water. Life without parole. She would never again feel the sunshine on her face, never tend to her small garden, never sit on her porch and watch the world go by.

“This is a travesty of justice!” her public defender shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos. The prosecutor, a sharp-faced man who had masterfully painted her as a cold-blooded killer, was already packing his briefcase with the satisfied efficiency of a job well done. Behind her, she heard her neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, sobbing. “She didn’t do this! Delilah wouldn’t hurt a fly!” But the jury hadn’t seen the woman who baked cookies for neighborhood children; they had seen the evidence. Her fingerprints on the murder weapon. Her bank account suddenly flush with unexplained cash. Security footage that seemed to place her at the scene. All of it was a lie. A perfectly crafted, soul-destroying lie.