Chapter 9
The trial started three months later.
It was the biggest trial the city had ever seen.
Every news channel in the country covered it.
Every day, the courtroom was packed with reporters, spectators, people who’d driven for hours just to get a glimpse of the Bride Who Took Down a Dynasty.
The prosecution’s case was airtight.
We had the ledgers.
The recordings.
Clara’s testimony.
Jonathan’s testimony.
The gun from the cabin.
The video tapes.
The confessions from the hitman and the two men who’d guarded Clara.
And the folder with my dad’s name on it.
The defense tried everything.
They tried to say Clara was a delusional amnesiac who’d made the whole thing up.
They tried to say Jonathan was a bitter, angry son who’d framed his own mother to get control of the company.
They tried to say I’d planted all the evidence, that I’d manipulated everyone, that I was the real mastermind behind it all.
But none of it stuck.
The evidence was too strong.
And Rosalind didn’t help herself.
Every time she took the stand, she came off as cold, arrogant, entitled.
She sneered at the witnesses.
She talked down to the prosecutors.
She told the jury my dad was a thief, that Clara was a liar, that Jonathan was a disappointment, that none of it was her fault.
The jury hated her.
The trial lasted six weeks.
The jury deliberated for three days.
When they came back, the courtroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
The foreman stood up.
“On the count of murder in the first degree of Thomas Carter,” he said. “We find the defendant, Rosalind Marie Duncan, guilty.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom.
“On the count of murder in the first degree of Arthur James Duncan,” he said. “Guilty.”
“On the count of aggravated kidnapping of Clara Voss,” he said. “Guilty.”
“On the count of racketeering,” he said. “Guilty.”
“On the count of money laundering,” he said. “Guilty.”
“On the count of conspiracy to commit murder of Jonathan Duncan,” he said. “Guilty.”
He went on.
Twenty-three counts in total.
Guilty on every single one.
Rosalind didn’t flinch.
She just sat there, her back straight, her face cold, like the verdict didn’t matter to her at all.
But I saw her hands.
They were clenched in her lap, so tight her knuckles were white.
The judge sentenced her to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Plus an additional hundred and twenty years for the other charges.
She would die in prison.
As the officers led her out of the courtroom, she didn’t look at Jonathan.
She didn’t look at Clara.
She looked straight at me.
And for the first time since I’d met her.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t threaten.
She just looked.
And I saw it.
The defeat.
The knowledge that she’d lost.
Everything.
The judge called a recess.
I walked out of the courtroom into the hallway.
My mom and Lily were waiting for me.
They ran over, wrapping me in a hug, crying, telling me how proud they were.
I held them tight.
I’d spent so long being afraid for them.
So long trying to keep them safe.
Now they were.
Finally.
Clara came over, holding a tissue, her eyes red.
She hugged me too.
“We did it,” she said.
“We did,” I said.
Jonathan was standing by the vending machine at the end of the hallway.
He was wearing a suit, his arm in a sling from the bullet graze.
His own trial was next week.
He’d plead guilty to kidnapping, fraud, and domestic violence, as per our deal.
He’d serve seven years.
He saw me looking at him.
He walked over.
My mom and Lily stepped back, wary.
“Congratulations,” he said. His voice was quiet. “You did good.”
“Your testimony helped,” I said.
He nodded.
He paused, like he was trying to find the right words.
“I know saying I’m sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he said. “I know I hurt you. Bad. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it. Not to you. To everyone. When I get out, I’m going to work with the domestic violence fund you set up. Talk to kids who are being manipulated by their parents. Who are making the same mistakes I did. It’s not much. But it’s something.”
He held out his hand.
I looked at it.
For a long time.
Then I shook it.
“Good,” I said. “Don’t waste your second chance, Jonathan.”
“I won’t,” he said.
He turned and walked away.
The bailiff led him out of the courthouse, toward the waiting police car that would take him back to jail to await his own sentencing.
I watched him go.
I didn’t feel hate for him anymore.
I didn’t feel anything, really.
Just...
Peace.
Strange, quiet peace.
That night, Clara and I went back to the Duncan estate.
It had been empty since the arrests.
The windows were dark.
The lawn was overgrown.
We walked through the front door, turning on the lights as we went.
We went up to the study.
The desk was still stained from the fire Rosalind had started.
The family portraits were still on the wall.
Clara walked over to the portrait of Arthur.
She took it off the wall, carrying it out to the backyard.
She laid it on the stone patio.
She poured a can of gasoline over it.
She lit a match.
The portrait caught fire, the flames curling up around Arthur’s face, then Rosalind’s, then Jonathan’s, until the whole thing was a pile of ash and blackened canvas.
We stood there and watched it burn.
“Good riddance,” Clara said.
I nodded.
The next morning, we went to the cemetery.
We brought flowers.
We stood in front of my dad’s grave.
I put the folder with his name on it on the headstone.
The one with the audit report.
The one with Rosalind’s note.
The one that had proven he hadn’t killed himself.
That he’d been a good man.
An honest man.
Who’d been murdered for doing the right thing.
“I did it, Dad,” I said, my voice breaking. “I got her. She’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I’m sorry it took so long.”
Clara put her arm around me.
“He knows,” she said. “He’s proud of you.”
We stood there for a long time.
Until the sun went down.
Until the wind started to blow cold.
Then we walked back to the car.
May you like
And for the first time in twelve years.
I didn’t look back.
