Last night, I helped a woman carry her heavy bags home, and this morning, several police cars showed up at my place and accused me of it…
It had been an ordinary evening after a long day at work. I was walking home, tired, when I noticed an elderly woman at the corner of the street. She was leaning on a fence, struggling to breathe. Next to her were two huge grocery bags. I approached and asked if she needed help.
“Thank you, son,” she exhaled. “I just came from the store… I overestimated my strength… it’s not far to home, but my heart acted up.”
I couldn’t just walk away. I took her bags and walked beside her, listening to her heavy breathing. Along the way, she told me she lived alone: her husband had passed away several years ago, her children rarely called, and her pension barely covered her expenses. Her voice was kind and calm, and I felt both pity and respect for her.
We reached her old house on the outskirts of town. She opened the door, thanked me, and wished me well. I set the bags by the doorstep, smiled, and left. Everything seemed ordinary. I didn’t even remember the house number.
But the very next evening, when I was coming home from work, police cars were parked near my house. Flashing lights, officers in uniform—it was like a scene from a movie. One of the officers approached and called my name.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, not understanding what was happening.
He looked at me with a long, serious gaze and said something that made me freeze in terror.
“You are a person of interest in the murder of the woman.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t believe my ears. Murder?! I tried to explain that I had only helped carry her bags, but the police were convinced: I was the last person to see her alive.
They showed footage from a camera near her house. There I was indeed—carrying her bags, walking into the gate with her. After that frame, she never appeared again.
I was taken to the station and interrogated for several hours. I kept repeating the same thing: I helped her and left. They didn’t believe me. I spent the night in a cell, unable to sleep, replaying every moment in my mind.
The next day, the investigation results came in. It turned out that late at night, another person had entered the house—her son, with whom she had constant conflicts over inheritance.
Neighbors had heard an argument but didn’t pay attention. He had strangled his mother and then fled, leaving traces that the police later discovered.
When I was released, the officer apologized. But inside, a chill and fear remained—because if it hadn’t been for the cameras and the discovered fingerprints, I could have remained guilty of a crime I didn’t commit.
