I looked at Derek when I answered, because I wanted him to hear it from me, and I wanted the jury to understand that my silence had not been fear, but strategy.

“Because the first time I underestimated him,” I said, “my daughter and I nearly died on our own kitchen floor.

I was not going to hand him a second chance to destroy the one thing that could protect us.

He had already shown me exactly who he was.

I believed him.

And I made sure that this time, when it mattered, I was the one holding the proof.” In the gallery, Sylvia began to weep, softly, into a handkerchief.

I looked at her, the woman who had said get the papers while I burned, and I searched myself honestly for some flicker of pity, and I found that I felt nothing at all.