Warm June sunlight fell across Julia as she made her way along the narrow paths between bright flower arrangements and heavy stone markers. She took no pleasure in these walks through the cemetery, but lately they had become one of the few ways she could keep from going hungry.
Trying not to draw attention or disturb grieving families, she studied the graves carefully, looking for food left behind after memorial visits: candy, pastries, maybe a roll or two. The older homeless women who usually stayed near the main gate often gave her grief over it. “You keep wandering around among the dead, Julia, and you’re going to bring trouble on that baby,” one longtime drifter named Gail would mutter.
The older woman firmly believed cemeteries were no place for a pregnant woman. “You don’t know what goes on here after dark,” she’d warn. “Why take chances?”
Julia usually brushed it off. “After three years in prison, Gail, I’m not exactly scared of ghosts,” she would say with a tired half-smile. But underneath that dry answer was a woman who had no real idea what came next.
No steady income and nowhere to turn had pushed her into this strange routine among the graves. She simply had no other way to get by. And at twenty-eight, seven months pregnant, she was carrying more than most people could imagine.
It had been only about three weeks since she’d been released early from a women’s correctional facility. The baby she carried was the result of a real relationship with a young corrections officer. Only after getting out did she fully understand one hard truth: without that pregnancy, she might still be behind bars.
Her mind drifted back to the detective’s cold stare during that first interrogation. She had just buried her husband and was still numb with grief when she found herself answering questions under fluorescent lights. “We’ve received the latest lab results, Mrs. Frolova,” the detective had said in a clipped voice, looking down at his paperwork.
“The report says our forensic team found some very interesting fingerprints in your apartment,” he added. “What does that mean?” Julia had asked quietly. “Did you figure out why my husband’s heart suddenly stopped?” The detective gave her a thin, humorless smile.
“You really don’t know?” he said. “If you want me to be direct, fine. Your husband didn’t die of natural causes. He was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? That’s impossible,” Julia had whispered. “That doesn’t make any sense.” “Enough,” the detective snapped, slapping a hand on the desk. “Your husband was deliberately killed, and we have reason to believe you did it.”
“We found your fingerprints on the water pitcher that contained the poison.” At that, all the color drained from her face. For a moment she felt as if the floor had shifted under her.
