I woke up in the rain outside the emergency room entrance with broken ribs, one eye swollen shut, and the ghost of Ryan’s fingers still around my throat, while he stood dry under the awning calmly telling the responding officer that I’d attacked him completely unprovoked and all the bruises on my neck were self-inflicted proof I was dangerously mentally ill.

Closing arguments happened two days later.

Klein looked like he hadn’t slept. His suit was wrinkled. His hair was a mess. He gave it his best shot—talked about Ryan’s outburst being a sign of mental instability, of the incredible stress of an innocent man on trial for crimes he didn’t commit. Begged the jury not to convict based on emotion. To look at the facts. To find reasonable doubt.

No one believed him.

Not even him.

Lena’s closing was a masterpiece.

She wove every thread of the trial together. The murder. The fraud. The abuse. The conspiracy. The confessions. She reminded the jury of every witness, every document, every second of the recordings. She talked about my father. About what he’d built. About how he’d been killed for it. About how Ryan and Margaret had spent three years trying to finish what they’d started by destroying me too.

“These people didn’t just commit crimes,” she said, standing in front of the jury. “They committed atrocities. They murdered a good man. They tortured his daughter. They stole from hundreds of employees who trusted them. And they would have gotten away with it. They almost did. But for one thing.”

She pointed at me.

“Elara refused to break. They beat her. They drugged her. They told her she was crazy, that no one would ever believe her, that she’d die alone and forgotten. And still she fought. She hid that recorder. She survived that night. And she made sure the truth came out. Now it’s your turn. You have all the proof you could ever need. You heard the confessions. You saw the evidence. The only question left is: what are you going to do about it? Are you going to let two murderers walk free because they have money and expensive suits? Or are you going to do what’s right? Find them guilty. On every count. Send a message that no matter how rich you are, no matter how powerful you think you are, you cannot kill, you cannot steal, you cannot destroy innocent lives and get away with it. Find them guilty. Thank you.”

The jury deliberated for six hours.

I sat in the courtroom, holding Lena’s hand, while the clock on the wall ticked away the longest day of my life.

Carter was there. The ADAs. Former employees. Friends I hadn’t seen in years.

And then, at four in the afternoon, the bailiff came back in.

“The jury has reached a verdict,” he said.

My heart stopped.

Ryan and Margaret were led in. Ryan looked broken. Hollow. Margaret looked cold, still, like she’d already accepted what was coming.

We all stood.

The judge asked the foreman to read the verdict.

“On the count of murder in the first degree of David Voss—Margaret Hale… guilty.”

A breath went through the room.

“On the count of conspiracy to commit murder—Margaret Hale… guilty. Ryan Hale… guilty.”

“On the count of assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm—Ryan Hale… guilty.”

“On the count of fraud in the first degree—Margaret Hale… guilty. Ryan Hale… guilty.”

“On the count of conspiracy to defraud—both defendants… guilty.”

“On the count of racketeering—both defendants… guilty.”

“On the count of witness tampering—both defendants… guilty.”

On and on.

Twenty-three counts total.

Guilty.

Every single one.

I didn’t cry.

I just sat there, squeezing Lena’s hand so hard I thought I might break her fingers, while the judge polled the jury, while Klein made his inevitable motions for a new trial (all denied), while the bailiffs led Ryan and Margaret away to be sentenced.

Ryan didn’t look at me.

Margaret did.

This time there was no smile.

No anger.

Just a blank, empty stare as the doors closed behind her.

Sentencing was three weeks later.

Margaret got life without parole.

The judge called her “the most cold-blooded, remorseless defendant I have ever had the misfortune to preside over in thirty years on the bench.” She told Margaret she would die in prison, and that it was exactly what she deserved.

Ryan got life plus a hundred and twenty years.

The judge told him that his open-court confession had made the decision easy. That he was a sociopath. A parasite. That he would never, ever breathe free air again.

As they led him away, he screamed one last thing at me.

“I’ll get you, Elara! I’ll find a way! This isn’t over!”