The trial lasted three weeks. My mother never once looked at Anna. When the verdict came, guilty on every count, she stared straight ahead, and I felt nothing but a long, quiet tiredness. Eric received eleven years. My mother, fourteen. Carver was indicted separately on loan-sharking charges, and Gary Dunmore lost his notary license and testified for a reduced sentence.

On the courthouse steps, reporters shouted questions. Rachel stepped forward to handle them, and I took Anna’s arm and walked her to the car.

Spring came slowly that year. Anna’s hair grew back in soft dark waves. We sold the house, because neither of us could sleep there, and bought a small place by a lake two hours north, with big windows and no basement.

On our first night there, Anna stood on the back porch, watching the water turn gold.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” she asked.

I thought about it honestly. “I think the damage is real,” I said. “But so is you. So is us.”

She leaned against my shoulder. “I used to count the days in that room. Now I count the sunrises.”

“How many so far?”

She smiled, and it reached her eyes.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” she said.

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