[CHAPTER 13]
The criminal charges came in waves.
Fraud.
Forgery.
Witness intimidation.
Evidence tampering.
Conspiracy.
Charges related to my accident were more complicated, but prosecutors added child endangerment and obstruction counts after reviewing the garden footage and Mara’s recordings.
Martin remained in custody.
Lydia was released on a large bond with electronic monitoring.
That terrified me.
The judge ordered her to stay away from me.
Paper did not feel like protection.
Dad hired additional security.
I hated that too.
I wanted my house back.
Not guards.
Not cameras.
Not alarms that made me jump whenever a door opened.
Jenna noticed.
“You’re walking better.”
“I’m sleeping worse.”
“Those things can happen at the same time.”
She made me practice without a crutch between two parallel bars.
I took three steps.
My leg shook.
Four.
Five.
Then I stopped.
“I’m scared.”
“Of falling?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
I looked through the therapy-room window toward the garden.
“Of getting better.”
She waited.
I hated therapists who waited.
It made silence impossible.
“If I get better,” I said, “people expect everything to be normal.”
“Do you want normal?”
“I don’t know what it is anymore.”
Jenna nodded.
“Then don’t recover toward normal.”
I frowned.
“Recover toward safe.”
That stayed with me.
Safe.
I began measuring progress differently.
One night without checking the lock three times.
One meal where nobody discussed court.
One afternoon when Noah and I laughed so hard at a stupid video that my ribs hurt.
Those counted too.
Dad started therapy.
He did not announce it dramatically.
He simply told me after his second appointment.
“I should have gone years ago.”
“For what?”
“Grief.”
Mom.
I understood.
“And guilt.”
Me.
I looked away.
He continued.
“I keep wanting you to forgive me so I can feel better.”
I turned back.
“That’s surprisingly self-aware.”
He laughed.
“My therapist is expensive.”
I smiled for the first time that day.
Then he became serious.
“You don’t owe me forgiveness.”
That made forgiveness feel more possible.
The trial would take months to prepare.
But Lydia refused to disappear quietly.
She gave an interview through her attorney.
The television network blurred portions because I was a minor, but everyone knew who she meant.
She described herself as a “devoted stepmother trapped inside a wealthy family’s grief.”
I nearly threw the remote.
She claimed Mara blackmailed her.
Claimed the garden argument was about my behavior.
Claimed Dad wanted a villain because he could not accept that my fall had been an accident.
Grandmother turned off the television.
“That woman.”
I laughed.
Six months earlier, Grandmother would have scolded me for calling Lydia a liar.
Now she wanted to throw things too.
Then the reporter mentioned Mom.
Lydia claimed Dad had never recovered from Anna’s death and had compared Lydia to her constantly.
Dad went still.
Some of that was probably true.
Painful truths made good shields for bigger lies.
I looked at him.
“Did you?”
“Sometimes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I failed both of you in different ways.”
I appreciated that he did not make Lydia’s crimes his fault.
Being an imperfect husband did not justify fraud.
Being a grieving father did not excuse Lydia hurting me.
Both truths could exist.
The next morning, someone leaked parts of my medical records online.
My panic attacks.
Memory problems.
Medication.
Everything.
Students at school saw them.
One girl messaged me:
Is it true you hallucinate?
I turned my phone off.
Dad called the police.
Rachel filed an emergency motion.
The leak was traced to an anonymous account.
But only a few people had those records.
Lydia.
Martin.
Their attorneys.
My doctors.
And Dad.
The detective believed it came from the copies found in Martin’s storage unit.
I wanted to hide.
Then Noah said something simple.
“If you disappear, she gets what she wanted.”
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
“My mom used to say bullies love empty rooms.”
I smiled sadly.
“Your mom was smart.”
“Yeah.”
The next day, I returned to school.
I used one crutch.
Everyone stared.
I walked anyway.
At lunch, a boy at another table whispered something about crazy rich families.
I heard him.
I kept walking.
Then a girl named Sophie moved her backpack off the seat beside her.
“Sit.”
We had barely spoken before.
I sat.
She handed me fries.
“You want me to punch anybody?”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Offer stands.”
For forty minutes, nobody asked about the garden.
It was the most ordinary lunch of my life.
When I came home, Dad was waiting on the porch.
He held an envelope.
No return address.
My stomach tightened.
“Another threat?”
“No.”
His voice sounded strange.
“It’s from Lydia.”
She was forbidden to contact me.
The letter should never have reached our house.
Rachel told us not to open it until police arrived.
They photographed everything.
Then the detective unfolded it.
Only one sentence was written inside.
Clara, ask your father what happened the night your mother died.
I stared at Dad.
May you like
His face went completely white.
And for the first time since this began, I saw fear in his eyes that had nothing to do with Lydia.
