I didn’t do it.
My adoptive father, Edmund Langley, took me in as a child and gave me everything — not the money, though there was nearly five billion dollars of it, but the things that mattered.
He taught me to read a balance sheet. To recognize who could be trusted. To believe that integrity outranked every zero in any account.
Then he pa*sed away, suddenly, and before I could grieve, the detectives came.
My fingerprints were on his medication bottle — because I sorted his pills every week.
A strange purchase had come from my own computer. A burner phone was tied to my account.
And two witnesses swore under oath that I’d handed my father his medicine just before he fell ill.
Those two witnesses were my husband, Roman, and his mother, Priscilla.
Roman wore black to my trial and wept so convincingly that strangers in the gallery cried with him.
