The ragged lace of my oldest nightgown hung below the quilted polyester bathrobe I threw on as I got myself out of bed. Someone was knocking at the door.

It’s probably just Harry, I thought, as the knocking persisted. My neighbor Harry was always forgetting his house key and asking for the spare I kept in my English bone china teapot on the buffet.

I cracked open the front door. No Harry. But what looked like the entire police force of Millboro was lined up in a row right below the front steps, from the peonies on one side to the hydrangeas on the other. Behind them, a few photographers with cameras in “shoot” position.

“Ms. Sanders?”

“Yes?”

“You are under arrest for the murder of Elroy Morgen.”

The cameras clicked. The next day I was famous.

I kept a copy of the newspaper photo under my pillow for several years until one of the guards at the penitentiary tore it into little pieces. He tossed them into the air and they floated down like confetti all over my cell.