ah, we're ready. It's time." My husband, Dr. Mark Johns
ther. The moment that, in another life, had d
d: an orange jumpsuit, camera flashes, a "Guilty" verdict. I remembered dying alone in a prison cell,
at fate. Yet here I was, surrounded by public scorn, branded a "psycho doctor" and a "murderer" by a baying mob, all orchestrated by Mark ae trapped again, burying me under fabricated evidence and public hatred. But I had a secr
ut reports of my fingerprints on the scalpel, a massive overdose of a powerful opioid, and a fake email f
A distant cousin from my mother' s side. The truth began to crystallize, sickenin
Just let me see him one last time. Let me say goodbye at the funeral home. Alone." The