I did not look at the cameras.

I turned my body and I looked directly at the two people who had left my children and me to die in the dark.

Kenneth would not meet my eyes; he stared down at his shackled wrists.

Beatrice kept her chin high, still performing the fragile, wronged old woman.

“For fifteen years, Kenneth,” I said, and my voice carried clear and steady to the high ceiling, “I believed you were my partner.

And for thirty-four years, Beatrice, I believed you were my mother, and that you loved me above everything.