I Died in Prison for the Murder His Mistress Committed

Camille's POV

I don't realize how badly I've been wronged until they're strapping me to the gurney.

My name is Camille Brooks. I'm one of the best cardiothoracic surgeons in the city, and I have never lost a patient on my table.

My fiancé, Adrian Vance, is the golden boy of the entire hospital. We're supposed to get married next month.

It's a stormy night when he calls, telling me to get to the hospital right now. There's a patient bleeding out, and only I can save them.

I race through the rain, but I get stuck in traffic halfway there. By the time I push through the OR doors, the patient has no pulse.

The family points at me. They say I botched the procedure and killed him. And Adrian Vance, my own fiancé, takes the stand and shows up with "ironclad evidence" against me.

I have nothing to fight back with. I go to prison. My parents can't handle it. It destroys them both. They take their own lives.

It's only after I die that I learn who really held the scalpel that night: Daisy Whitman, the woman Adrian never got over.

I was just the fall guy.

Then I open my eyes.

I'm back. One hour before everything falls apart, riding through the rain toward the hospital.

This time, I'm going to survive.

And I'm going to watch both of you burn.

"Camille! Get to the hospital right now! OR 3, we've got a patient bleeding out and it's bad. You're the only one who can pull this off. Let's go!"

The phone rattles against the motorcycle mount, Adrian Vance's name lighting up the screen.

I grip the handlebars tight, my whole body shaking.

I'm alive. I'm actually back, one hour before it all falls apart.

He keeps going: "Camille! Where are you? This patient is critical!"

"You need to hurry. Nobody else can handle this surgery!"

"Camille, we're talking about someone's life here. If you're not here in the next few minutes, it's over!"

His voice is urgent, desperate, like he actually gives a damn about the patient.

But I know exactly what this phone call is. Last time around, it's what put me in a cell.

In my past life, I did what any doctor would do. I blew through every red light, pushed the bike as hard as it would go, and burst through those OR doors.

The patient was already gone.

Then the family stormed in and beat me half to death. They pressed charges. And Adrian Vance walked into that courtroom with surveillance footage that supposedly proved I was the one who operated on that patient.

I couldn't say a single word in my own defense. They put me away, and I died in there.

I take a breath and shout over the rain, "I'm still on Bay Road! Storm knocked out the signals, there's an officer rerouting traffic. I'll find a way around. Just hold on!"

I hang up before he can say another word.

Cold rain hammers against my helmet.

Less than two miles to go.

If I don't show, Adrian will find another way to pin this on me. I know he will. I'm the top cardiothoracic surgeon in the department. I'm the perfect person to take the fall.

I need proof.

An alibi so airtight nobody can punch a hole in it.

Through the rain-smeared visor, I spot the intersection up ahead. The signal is dead, knocked out by the storm. A patrol officer in a reflective rain jacket stands in the road, sweeping a flashlight to keep traffic moving.

A dark sedan sits at the line right in front of him.

This is it.

Something sharpens inside me. I read the distance, the speed, the angle.

If I hit at this speed and stay away from anything vital, I won't die.

But I'll go down hard.

I set my jaw and twist the throttle.

The bike tears through the rain, straight toward the back of that sedan.

The officer wheels around, throwing his arm out wide, flashlight cutting through the dark.

"Slow down! Hey, slow down!"

I don't.

I shut my eyes.

You can't go soft on yourself. Not if you want to come out on top.

The impact hits like a wall. I'm airborne, the world spinning end over end, and then I crash down onto the hood and roll off onto the rain-soaked pavement.

My right arm screams.

"We've got someone down! Call 911!"

The officer's voice cuts through the rain. Boots splash toward me, fast.

"Hey! Stay with me! Don't close your eyes!"

A rough hand slaps at my helmet. The officer crouches over me, expression tense.

I groan and drag my eyes open, looking down at my right arm twisted in a direction it was never supposed to bend.

"It hurts..."

"Don't move. Don't move, okay? Your shoulder's dislocated."

He drops to one knee and presses a firm hand to my shoulder.