Chapter 3 - THE SISTER'S ALIBITwo hours later, shivering and wrapped in a cheap wool blanket given to me by a truck driver at a rest stop thirty miles outside Baltimore, I sat in the harsh fluorescent lighting of a 24-hour diner.
My phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number: HE'S DEAD. NEXT TIME, DON'T LOOK FOR GHOSTS. GO HOME TO YOUR SISTER.
I stared at the screen, my blood running ice-cold.
When I pulled my car into the driveway of my suburban home in Virginia at 5:00 AM, the police cruisers were already parked out front.
Mark stood on the front porch, handcuffed, talking frantically to two detectives. Standing beside him, dabbing fake tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief, was my sister Rachel.
As I stepped out of my car, Rachel gasped dramatically.
"Sarah! Oh, thank God!" Rachel cried out, running down the steps to throw her arms around me. "Where have you been?! Mark has been out of his mind with worry! The police found the medical vials in his car, and now they're saying... they're saying he tried to hurt our baby!"
I looked past Rachel’s shoulder at Mark.
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Mark wasn't crying. His face was a mask of cold, calculated calculation. He met my eyes with a silent, threatening glare that telegraphed a terrifying message: Play along, or you're next.
Detective Miller stepped forward, flashing his badge. "Mrs. Ward? We need you inside. We have questions about your whereabouts tonight—and about a homicide at a motel in Baltimore."
