Chapter 2

Diane Matthews knelt in her garden, the California sun warm on her back as she tended to her roses. With practiced fingers, she snipped a wilting bloom, the scent of fresh earth and petals surrounding her. The gentle hum of bees and the distant laughter of children filled the afternoon—until the shrill ring of her phone sliced through the serenity.

"Hello?" Diane's voice was the soft caress of a breeze through the leaves.

"Diane Matthews?" The voice on the other end was gruff, edged with formality.

"Yes, this is she."

"Detective Mark Larson here, Saint Augustine Police Department." The pause that followed was heavy and loaded. "I'm afraid I have some disturbing news about your son-in-law, Will."

The pruning shears slipped from her fingers, thudding against the soil. "Will? What's happened?"

"Ma'am, he's been arrested for the murder of your daughter, Angela."

"Murder?"

The word was a foreign invader in her mouth, bitter and jagged. "But… but I don't understand. It was an accident. She got up in the middle of the night and fell down the stairs. She died in the ambulance. That's what we were told. They—you—said it was an accident. This can't be true. It must be a mistake."

"I understand this is hard to accept," the detective continued. "Especially after so many years."

"Hard to accept?" Diane's voice crescendoed, a rare sharpness slicing through her usual calm. "It's more than that. It's impossible. Someone must be mistaken."

"Ma'am, the evidence brought to light?—"

"Will loved Angela," she interjected, her tone insistent, unyielding. "He could never harm her. There's been some sort of error."

"Unfortunately, the arrest is based on new findings in your daughter's case. New evidence has been brought to the light of day."

"New findings?" Her heart raced, each beat a drum echoing her mounting dread. "I can't believe this. How? Where is this all coming from? I thought the case was closed years ago? I can't… you know what? I'm coming to St. Augustine. I will be there. I will get to the bottom of this."

"And you have every right to, but it won't change the facts. The case has been reopened, and Will Jennings has been arrested."

"That's nonsense. I don't believe this. We can talk when I get there. I need to know everything."

"Very well, we'll await your arrival. Thank you, Mrs. Matthews."

"Thank you?"

The words hung empty in the air as the line went dead. She stared at the phone, disbelief etched into every line of her face —the garden around her blurred, her sanctuary now a prison of unanswered questions and rising fear.

Will arrested? For murdering Angela? After three years? It can't be right.

Diane's hands, once steady and sure among the petals and leaves, now trembled as she dialed the traveling company she usually used.

"I need the next flight to Florida," her voice was steel wrapped in velvet, a testament to resolve born from a mother's fierce love.

"St. Augustine," she added, urgency knotting her words into terse commands.

"Please hold for available flights," the agent replied, a distant voice against the storm brewing inside her.

She paced, phone pressed to her ear, each step a silent vow to clear Will's name, to right this inconceivable wrong. The garden outside faded to a mere backdrop; her mind raced ahead to Florida, to courtrooms and confrontations.

"Your confirmation number is," the agent's voice returned, slicing through the cacophony of her thoughts.

"Thank you," Diane hung up, not a second lost, not a single breath wasted on pleasantries.

Her suitcase lay open, a cavernous maw ready to swallow the essentials for battle. She folded clothing with precision, an armor against the days ahead. Her fingers skimmed over Angela's photo before tucking it safely between layers of fabric—a talisman against doubt.

"Justice," she whispered to the image, a promise etched in her eyes, still sparkling with undiminished determination.

The taxi honked outside the next morning, a clarion call to action. She hefted her luggage, every ounce of its weight a testament to what she carried inside: conviction, unwavering belief, and a mother's indomitable spirit.

"To the airport, please," her directive cut through the early morning haze, the cityscape blurring past, a tableau of lives untouched by her turmoil.

Diane Matthews was en route, a force of nature set upon a course that brooked no interference, no delay. Her son-in-law's innocence was the beacon guiding her, and her daughter's memory was the fuel igniting her onward.