Last night I helped an elderly woman carry her heavy bags home — and this morning several police cars showed up at my house accusing me of murder… 

It was an ordinary evening after a long day at work. I was tired and walking home when I noticed an elderly woman standing at the corner of the street. She was leaning against a fence, breathing heavily. Beside her were two large shopping bags. I approached her and asked if she needed any help.

— Thank you, son, — she sighed, — I just came back from the store… I overestimated my strength… my house isn’t far, but my heart is acting up again.

I couldn’t just walk away. I picked up her bags and walked beside her, listening to her labored breathing. On the way, she told me she lived alone: her husband had passed away a few years earlier, her children rarely called, and her pension barely covered her needs. Her voice was gentle and calm, and I felt both compassion and respect for her.

We reached her old house on the outskirts of town. She opened the door, thanked me, and wished me good health. I placed the bags by the door, smiled, and left. Everything seemed perfectly normal. I didn’t even remember the house number.

But the next evening, when I came home from work, several police cars were parked in front of my house. Flashing lights, uniformed officers — it looked like a scene from a movie. One of them approached me and said my name.

— Yes, that’s me, — I answered, not understanding what was going on.

He looked at me for a long moment and then said something that froze my blood. 
Continuation in the first comment 

— You are a suspect in the murder of a woman.

My heart stopped. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Murder?! I tried to explain that I had only helped her carry her bags, but the police were convinced that I was the last person to see her alive.

They showed me footage from a surveillance camera near her house. There I was — with her bags, walking behind her through the gate. After that frame, she never appeared again.

I was taken to the police station and interrogated for hours. I kept repeating the same thing: I helped her and then left. They didn’t believe me. I spent the night in a cell, sleepless, replaying every moment in my head.

The next day, the results of the investigation came in. It turned out that later that night, another man had entered the house — her son, with whom she constantly argued over inheritance.

Neighbors had heard the quarrel but didn’t pay attention. He was the one who strangled his mother and fled, leaving behind traces that the police later found.

When I was finally released, the officer apologized. But inside, I was left with nothing but cold and fear — because if not for the cameras and the fingerprints, I might have remained forever guilty of a crime I never committed.