When a ruthless mother-in-law pushes an innocent little girl into the deep dark pond, a pregnant mother risks her life to save her, only to face a terrifying trap that destroys the entire family's dark secret forever. Read the comment below!

The woman from Channel 7 called my house on a Tuesday morning and asked if I would sit for an interview in my own garden.

I told her I would, on one condition.

I said, "You film the whole pool, not just my face."

She said that was fine.

Her name was Renata Cole, which is a coincidence I have never been able to decide how to feel about, and she came with a cameraman and a producer and a folder full of printouts of the clip that had been running on every phone in my neighborhood for three months.

She sat on my back patio with a glass of iced tea she did not drink, and she walked me through it before we started.

She said, "Mrs. Whitfield, I want to be honest with you.

We ran the original clip twice.

We did not call you for comment.

That was our mistake."

I said, "It was."

She said, "I spoke with a man named Victor Ayres yesterday."

I had not heard that name spoken out loud since the card in my mailbox.

"He told me he was hired," she said.

"He wouldn't say by whom on camera.

But he gave me a statement, and he signed it, and he gave me a copy of the payment he received."

She slid a manila folder across the glass table.

I opened it.

There was a statement on plain paper in careful handwriting, and a photocopy of a money order from a company I had never heard of, and the amount was eleven hundred dollars.

Eleven hundred dollars to stand two doors down from my house on a Wednesday afternoon with a phone and wait.

I looked at Renata and I said, "He was told when to come."

"He was told when to come," she said.

We filmed for an hour.

I walked her camera to the deep end and I put my hand on the coping the way I had that day.

I told her that I had grabbed Nora's wrist because Nora had walked down the shallow steps without her floaties while I was on the phone with the pediatrician's office, and that the water at that end of the pool is four and a half feet, and my granddaughter is thirty-eight inches tall.

I said, "If you watch the clip again, my finger is not pointing at her face.

My finger is pointing at that wall right there."

The cameraman panned down and held it.

I said, "That's the point.

I was telling her where the deep end starts.

I was telling her because I had just pulled her back out of it."

Renata asked me about the screaming.

I said, "I screamed at a man holding a phone in my own driveway, and I am not going to apologize for that."

I said, "I am also not going to apologize for raising my voice at a four-year-old who had just been in water over her head.

You can put both of those on the air."

She put both of those on the air.

It ran on the Thursday six o'clock and again at eleven.

The station also ran a paragraph at the bottom of the screen, and I made Renata read it to me twice before I would let her leave.

It said that the child in the clip was now in the temporary permanent custody of the woman in the clip, pending a federal review, and that the man who filmed the video had been paid for it.

The next morning there was a casserole on my porch.

There was a second casserole by noon.

By Saturday there were four containers on the porch and a stack of cards, and every single one of them was from somebody I had seen at the Stop and Shop who had not said a word to me since February.

My neighbor Denise, who lives in the blue house, came over herself on Sunday with a pie and stood in my doorway and cried.

She said, "I'm so sorry, Diane.

I saw the car parked down the street that day.

I saw the man.

I didn't put it together."

I said, "Neither did I, and I was standing right there."

I enrolled Nora in swim lessons the third week of April.

Her instructor's name is Bethany and she has the patience of a saint, and the first lesson Nora would not let go of my leg.

The second lesson she went in to her waist.

The third lesson she put her face under the water and came up sputtering and laughing, and I sat on the bench by the wall of the pool and I cried like a fool with my sunglasses on.

That was the week she stopped calling me Miss Diane.

She came out of the shallow end with her little shoulders shaking from the cold or the excitement, one of the two, and she looked up at me and said, "Gramma, did you see me?"

I said, "I saw you, baby."

And a postcard came on a Friday.

No return address, just a picture of a blue-and-white building with a courtyard and a fountain.

The stamp was from Puerto Rico.

The handwriting on the back was small and careful and I did not recognize it, and there was exactly one line.