The trial was over.

The mask that had been worn for forty years was off, and behind bars, and would stay there.

And as the afternoon light warmed that bright new room above the river, with the lilies and the tea and the easy set of her shoulders, I understood that Jessi Vance was, for the first time in more years than either of us had known to count, finally, and completely, and truly safe.

And I have thought, in the quiet since, about that word — safe — and about how much heavier it is than we usually let it be.