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Caoimhe took the stand to relay what had happened that night with Kenan Reese, and the prosecutors pieced together Reese and Greig’s history for the jury. They even brought in a science teacher who had taught them both. She had reported them to the headteacher because she’d found them using a Bunsen burner on a wounded bird they’d brought in from outside. Kenan had told a teacher his stepmother was sexually abusing him, and no one had followed up on his accusation.

Three different psychologists had been brought in to examine Greig Wallace, and each said Greig displayed traits such as a lack of empathy, superficial charm, and a grandiose sense of self. Individually, they diagnosed him with antisocial personality disorder and each concluded that he “met the criteria for psychopathy.”

Grieg’s defense flipped the script on their diagnoses, grilling them about his childhood abuse at the hands of his stepfather and by his mother who did nothing to stop her husband from sexually abusing her son. That surely Greig’s diagnoses diminished any responsibility he had for the murders and he was a victim of Kenan Reese’s control. That Kenan had killed their first victim and dragged Greig along for the ride.

The defense argued that many people all over the world suffered physical, sexual, and emotional abuse as children and did not go on to perpetrate evil against others. Greig Wallace was a danger to the public’s safety and needed to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Thankfully, the jury agreed after listening in graphic detail to the violence of his and Kenan’s crimes.

It was hard to sit through that. To see the families of their victims crying as their daughters, sisters, and mothers’ rapes and murders were laid bare in horrific detail.

I held Cameron’s hand as she cried silently through it.

Greig Wallace was found guilty on multiple counts, and the judge sentenced him to life in prison without parole.

More than one family member of the victims thanked Cameron in person for what she’d done to bring Greig to justice, and I felt so much pride for my wife, I could barely contain it. It had taken some time to feel any relief because the media still followed us for a few days after the verdict. Cameron had been approached to take part in a documentary about the murders but she declined.

Eventually, we got peace and quiet. Finally, we felt like we could start living our lives again. It wasn’t easy. Cameron hadn’t slept well for a while after the trial. Slowly but surely, she began to believe it was finally over. We moved on.

Trying to adopt a child, however, was incredibly stressful. We constantly worried about our pasts, about our income, the stability of our income, about living on a semi-remote island in the Hebrides and whether it all would factor against us.

So, the text this morning from Angie, our social worker, made me want to puke with nerves.

Need to talk to you both. Can you get to a computer so I can video call?

Cameron had replied:

Yes. Forde, come home. We’ll be available in twenty mins.

I’d quickly texted back that I was on my way.

And I practically threw myself out of the truck as I hurried up our front porch that still smelled like new cedar.

“Baby!” I hurried inside.

“At the kitchen table!”

The house was already decorated because Cameron had been working alongside Quinn to make sure the house was finished from top to bottom by the time we moved in. Honestly, I was happy to let her pick whatever she wanted, and the house was a good mix of us both. I passed through our music room, a lounge where Cameron had Ramsay build custom shelves for all my records and a media center for a proper record player and speakers. All my movie posters were up in the room. It was quite a contrast to the design of the rest of the house, and I loved that Cameron did that for me.

Our kitchen was like something out of one of those design magazines. Quartz countertops. A big island. Expensive tile behind the massive range cooker. Cameron sat on the plush built-in seating she called a banquette, her laptop open on the table Ramsay had made.

“Has she called yet?” I panted as I slid into the booth seating beside her.

Cameron was mid-shaking her head when the loud ringing on her laptop made me jump.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I grabbed my wife’s left hand, feeling her diamond engagement ring dig into my palm as she clicked the screen with her free hand.

“Please, please, please,” she murmured under her breath.

I thought I might upchuck all over the table.

“Cammie, Forde!” Angie greeted us as soon as her face appeared on the screen. “How are you?”

“Fine, how are you?” I asked with more patience than I felt.

“Angie, I really do hope you’re well, but can you just please tell us what’s going on?” Cameron blurted, sounding like she might hyperventilate at any second.

I squeezed her hand again. “Baby.”

“It’s okay.” Angie beamed. “It’s good news.” She clicked on her mouse. “I’ve just sent you an email, Cammie. Can you open the attachment?”