I came home early from a business trip to the smell of wagyu and truffles, only to find my nine-year-old daughter eating cold instant noodles alone on the pantry floor while my new wife entertained guests in the dining room.

Six months after the trial, life felt almost normal.

Maya was doing well in school. She’d made three best friends, and she had sleepovers every other weekend. She still had bad days, still woke up crying sometimes, but they were getting fewer and farther between.

I’d sold my old company, the one that had kept me traveling so much. I started a new, smaller business, one that let me work from home most days. I never missed a school play, never missed a soccer game, never missed bedtime.

One afternoon, I picked Maya up from school. She was quiet in the car, staring out the window.

“Daddy?” she said, after a few minutes.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can we go visit Mommy’s grave?”

I swallowed, my throat tight. We hadn’t been since the trial. I’d been scared it would be too much for her.

“Of course,” I said.

We drove to the cemetery, the sun setting behind the trees. Maya brought a drawing she’d made, a picture of the three of us, with Sunny next to her. She laid it on the grave, then sat down cross-legged in front of it.

“Hi, Mommy,” she said, her voice soft. “I miss you. We have a new house. It’s yellow. And we have a dog named Sunny. He’s really fluffy.”

She paused, picking at the grass. “Eleanor was mean to me. But Daddy saved me. And Grandma lives with us now. I’m happy now. I just wish you were here.”

I knelt down next to her, putting my arm around her shoulders.

“Mommy is here,” I said. “She’s always with you. In your heart.”

Maya leaned her head on my shoulder. “I know.”

We sat there for a long time, watching the sun go down.

When we got home, there was an envelope in the mailbox. It was from the state parole board.

My blood ran cold as I opened it.

Eleanor had applied for early release, citing good behavior. A hearing was scheduled for next month.

I crumpled the letter in my hand, my chest tight with rage.

She’d only served two years. Two years for everything she’d done to Maya.

Margaret found me in the kitchen, staring at the letter.

“What is it?” she asked.

I handed it to her. Her face went white.

“She can’t get out,” she said. “She can’t.”

I called Clara immediately.

“She’s not getting out,” Clara said, her voice firm. “We’ll fight this. We’ll submit Maya’s therapist’s notes, the witness statements, the security footage. The parole board won’t release her.”

But I was scared.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed, thinking about Eleanor’s face, the way she’d looked at me when they led her away. This isn’t over, she’d mouthed.

I got up and went to Maya’s room. She was fast asleep, Sunny curled up next to her. I sat down on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair.

I wasn’t going to let Eleanor hurt her again.

I wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her again.

The parole hearing was two weeks later. We didn’t let Maya go. Clara told us it was better if she didn’t have to see Eleanor again.

I sat in the hearing room, my hands clenched into fists. Eleanor was brought in, wearing a prison uniform, her hair longer, her face pale. She looked at me, and for a second, I saw the cold, angry woman I’d seen in the pantry.

Then she put on a meek, remorseful face.

“I’ve changed,” she told the board, her voice soft. “I’ve taken anger management classes. I’ve gone to therapy. I deeply regret what I did. I was grieving, I was overwhelmed, I made a terrible mistake. I just want a second chance.”

Clara stood up, her voice sharp. “A second chance? You abused a nine-year-old girl for months. You locked her in dark rooms, you starved her, you told her she was worthless. You kidnapped her. You don’t deserve a second chance.”

She submitted all the evidence, all the statements, all the reports from Maya’s therapist about the trauma she’d suffered.

The board deliberated for an hour.

When they came back, the chairman looked at Eleanor.

“Your request for early release is denied. You will serve your full sentence.”

I closed my eyes, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Eleanor stared at the board, her face hard. She didn’t look remorseful anymore. She looked angry.

But it didn’t matter.