Episode 3: Framed for crime
1127 Words
Liana's point of view
Last normal day
The morning air was crisp, familiar. A soft breeze danced through the open window, carrying the scent of sun-warmed earth and distant sea salt.
It was just another day—nothing extraordinary, nothing unusual.
I ran my fingers through my hair, absently smoothing the strands as I stared at my reflection. My eyes held the softness of someone who hadn't yet seen the worst of the world.
But I was about to.
I returned home late that evening, exhausted after a long day at Harbridge University—lectures, discussions, drowning in financial formulas. It was nothing new, just the rhythm of my life. I had no idea I was walking into a nightmare.
The first knock came as I was in the kitchen—firm, unyielding.
I barely registered it.
The second knock was louder. Urgent.
Then the door swung open.
The Arrest
Dark uniforms, sharp voices, the unmistakable authority pressing into the air, their presence suffocating, pressing against the walls of our small living room.
They called my name.
"Liana Kate."
I blinked, gripping the edge of the counter.
"You're under arrest for k********g and child trafficking."
The words crashed into me like a wave—violent, unrelenting, impossible.
My mother gasped, stepping forward, but the officer raised a hand, halting her.
I shook my head, numbly, refusing to believe it. "No," I whispered. "That’s not true!"
But they weren’t listening.
Metal cuffs clamped around my wrists, cutting into my skin as they dragged me forward.
The world tilted, the ground beneath me suddenly unsteady.
The Confusion
Outside, people gathered—neighbors, classmates, familiar faces.
Some whispered. Others stared.
No one spoke for me. No one fought for me.
I searched their expressions, desperate to find just one person who would look at me and say, This is wrong.
But all I saw was hesitation. Doubt. Suspicion.
I turned to my mother. "Mom," I gasped, breath uneven. "Tell them! You know me!"
Her lips parted.
She said nothing.
My father clenched his fists. He wanted to fight. He wanted to protest. But the weight of accusation was too heavy.
And then I saw my brother’s hesitation.
He hesitated.
And that hesitation broke me more than the arrest.
The ride to the police station was a blur—cold metal cuffs biting into my wrists, officers speaking in clipped, detached tones, and the weight of confusion pressing against my chest.
Everything was too loud. Too surreal.
I was innocent. But none of that mattered.
By the time we arrived, the flashing cameras had disappeared, replaced by the sterile indifference of the precinct’s walls.
A single desk officer scribbled down my details, barely looking at me as I was ushered into an interrogation room.
Then came the witness.
The Bought Testimony
The door creaked open, and a man stepped in.
Mid-forties, thick-set, a scar running down his left cheek. His gaze was **too calculated**, too steady—as if he had practiced this moment over and over again.
A detective sat across from me, flipping through pages of my supposed “file.”
“This man,” the detective said, tapping the folder, “claims he saw you near the scene of a recent abduction.”
I jerked back. “What?”
The witness cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. I—I saw her,” he muttered. “She was there. Around the time those kids went missing.”
The forced hesitation in his voice sent chills down my spine.
He was lying.
And I knew exactly why.
This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t confusion.
This was planted. Fabricated. Bought.
But my protests—my desperate attempts to explain—didn’t matter.
The detective barely raised an eyebrow. “That’s enough.”
Moments later, the guards dragged me away.
The Cell
The walls of the holding cell were narrow, suffocating. The air was stale, thick with the scent of sweat and desperation.
I sat on the cold metal bench, my thoughts racing, trying to piece together the trap that had been set for me.
Who had done this? Who had framed me?
The evidence was too perfect. Too precise.
And the witness wasn’t just mistaken—he had been placed here.
As I stared at the gray walls, my breath uneven, the weight of my situation settled in.
I wasn’t just accused.
I was buried.
And the real criminal?
They were still out there. Walking free. Untouched. Watching me fall apart.
Outside the Police Station
The air was thick with tension, the low hum of city noise blending into the distant chatter of officers inside the precinct.
The witness a man with a scar running down his left cheek—stood near the curb, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shifting on his feet impatiently.
He had done his part. Said the words. Played his role.
Now, he was waiting for payment.
John’s Arrival
A sleek black car pulled up beside him, the tinted window rolling down with a quiet hum.
John sat inside, cool, composed, his fingers lazily tapping against the leather armrest.
"You delivered?" he asked, voice smooth, more of a statement than a question.
The witness nodded, swallowing hard. "Said what you wanted. Got the girl locked up."
John smirked. Perfect.
He reached into his jacket, retrieving a thick envelope. The witness reached for it instantly, but John pulled back slightly, his gaze sharp.
"You’ll stay quiet?"
The witness hesitated—just for a moment—then nodded. "Yeah. No reason to talk."
John studied him. Then, satisfied, he tossed the envelope into his lap.
"Good," he murmured. "Now, disappear."
Without another word, the car window rolled up, and the sleek vehicle disappeared into the city’s shadows.
The witness exhaled, gripping the envelope tightly.
It was done.
Liana Kate was ruined, and the real criminal?
Still walking free. Untouched. Watching everything fall perfectly into place.
The call
The office was dimly lit, the city skyline stretching endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Nicholas stood near his desk, whiskey glass in hand, waiting.
He had ordered ruin. He had demanded justice—even if the justice was built on lies.
And now, John was calling.
Nicholas answered, bringing the phone to his ear.
“It’s done,” John said, voice smooth, calculated. “She’s locked up. You won’t have to see her face again.”
Nicholas exhaled, letting the satisfaction settle in. “And it’ll stick?”
John chuckled, low and confident. “The evidence is airtight. Witnesses have spoken. She’s finished.”
Nicholas swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the golden reflections dance under the city lights.
His brother’s death hadn’t been avenged, but someone was paying the price.
That was enough.
For now.
- Writer
