Outside, the streetlights came on one by one. I made tea, opened the window, and let the evening air into the room. Nobody was waiting behind glass. Nobody was telling me to hurry. The life ahead was mine to build.
Epilogue: The Quiet Table
On the anniversary of Walter’s death, I invited a few people to dinner: Helena, Daniel, Mrs. Delaney, and Elise. There were no photographers, no expensive decorations, and no speeches about victory. We ate roast chicken and bread from the bakery down the street. Elise brought flowers. Mrs. Delaney complained that my knives were dull.
Halfway through the meal, Daniel asked whether I ever wished I had told the prosecutor everything sooner. I thought about the three months I spent collecting evidence, the fear of moving too early, and the moment the guard reached for my arm.
“I wish I hadn’t needed a secret to make anyone listen,” I said. “But I don’t regret insisting they check.”
