My blood turned to ice water. “That’s impossible,” I stammered, gripping the counter. “I’m home. I didn’t go in today.”
“We have security footage of your car entering the garage,” the officer continued, his tone dropping an octave. “And we have witnesses placing you on the third floor just before the attack.” Attack? The world tilted. “There was a critical incident,” he said. “Dangerous materials were released. Several people are down. And you, Ms. Rowan, are the only unaccounted person from that floor.”
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They were framing me. The realization hit me harder than a physical blow. Someone had stolen my identity, my car, and my life, all to pin a tragedy on me.
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