Chapter 6
The paternity test came back a week later.
Positive, of course.
Jamie was mine.
One hundred percent.
I framed the results and hung them on the fridge—not to prove anything to anyone else, but to remind Sarah, every time she saw it, that there was nothing anyone could ever say to make me doubt her or our son again.
Gertrude and Prudence didn’t go quietly.
They called social services.
They told the authorities Sarah was an unfit mother. That I was abusive. That Jamie was in danger.
Three social workers showed up at the door one Tuesday morning.
I let them in.
I showed them the house. Jamie’s new room—painted blue, filled with toys, books, a bed big enough for a prince. I showed them the fridge stocked with food. I showed them the bank statements. I showed them the back kitchen. I showed them the photos Sarah had finally let me take of her scars.
I introduced them to Jamie.
He was seven pounds heavier already. His cheeks were full. His eyes were bright. He showed the social workers his Lego castle, his dinosaur collection, the drawing he’d made of our family—me, Mommy, him, all holding hands under a yellow sun.
The social workers left an hour later.
They apologized for the intrusion.
They told me they’d be closing the case.
They also told me they’d be reporting Gertrude and Prudence for filing a false report.
That was strike two.
Strike three came two weeks later.
I was at the hardware store buying paint for Jamie’s room when I got the call from the alarm company.
Someone was trying to break into the house.
I raced home.
The police were already there.
They had Gertrude and Prudence in cuffs on the front lawn.
They’d smashed a back window with a brick. They’d been trying to get into the safe in the master bedroom—the safe where I kept the deed, the bank statements, the paternity test, all the evidence against them.
The police found crowbars in the Mercedes.
Gloves.
A can of gasoline.
They’d planned to burn the house down.
Burn all the evidence.
Burn us with it, if we’d been home.
That was it.
That was the line.
I pressed every charge I could.
Arson conspiracy.
Breaking and entering.
Attempted destruction of evidence.
Intimidation of witnesses.
The prosecutor loved the case.
The evidence was overwhelming.
The trial lasted three days.
I testified.
Sarah testified.
Jamie was too young, but his pediatrician testified about his malnutrition, his developmental delays, the fear he still carried in his small body.
Aunt Mabel testified.
She told the court everything Gertrude had said at the family meeting. Everything she’d tried to do.
The bank statements were entered as exhibits.
The photos of the back kitchen.
The photos of Sarah’s scars.
The police report from the break-in.
Gertrude and Prudence didn’t even bother to put up much of a defense. Their lawyer tried to paint them as poor, misunderstood women who’d made a few bad choices, who’d been driven to desperation by an ungrateful son.
No one bought it.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
Guilty.
On all counts.
The judge looked down at Gertrude and Prudence from the bench.
He was an old man.
Tough. No-nonsense.
“I’ve seen a lot of terrible things in this courtroom,” he said, his voice heavy with disgust. “But I have rarely seen anything as cruel, as calculated, as downright evil as what you two did to this family. You stole five years of this man’s life. You stole his son’s childhood. You beat and starved and abused the woman who trusted you, and then, when you were caught, you tried to burn them all alive in their beds.”
He leaned forward.
“Gertrude Hale,” he said. “I sentence you to twelve years in state prison. With no possibility of parole for eight.”
He turned to Prudence.
“Prudence Hale. You were an active and willing participant in every single one of these crimes. I sentence you to ten years in state prison. No parole for six.”
The bailiffs led them away.
Gertrude didn’t look at me.
Prudence did.
For just a second, as they handcuffed her and led her past, I saw it in her eyes.
Not remorse.
Not regret.
Pure, unadulterated hatred.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
They were gone.
They were going to be gone for a very long time.
I walked out of the courtroom into the bright sunshine.
Sarah was waiting for me.
Jamie was in her arms, holding a lollipop the bailiff had given him.
“Is it over?” Sarah said.
I took her face in my hands.
I kissed her.
Long and slow and sweet.
“It’s over,” I said.
Jamie reached for me.
I took him from Sarah and held him high in the air.
He laughed.
That loud, bright, perfect laugh I’d missed for five years.
We walked to the car together.
May you like
A family.
Whole at last.
