It was a freezing winter night in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Snow clung to the sidewalks like shattered glass under the streetlights, and the old brick houses stood in suffocating silence, unaware that inside one of them, a mind was quietly collapsing. Anna Morris, twenty-four, sat alone in her living room, the blue glow of the television flickering across her pale face. The show playing meant nothing to her. Her thoughts drifted in and out like fog through a hallway — fragmented memories, unfinished emotions, moments that felt borrowed from someone else. Around ten o’clock, the doorbell rang. Three firm knocks. Measured. Deliberate. Anna hesitated before opening the door. Two police officers stood under the porch light, their expressions stiff, unreadable. “Miss Anna Morris?” Her throat tightened. “Yes…?” “You are under arrest for the murder of Daniel Harper.” The name struck her like cold water. Daniel Harper — her former coworker at a downtown Boston art gallery — had been found brutally stabbed in his apartment earlier that evening. “I was home,” Anna whispered. “All night.” But truth has never been something that bends easily to denial.