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Chapter 2
Zoe sat in the gallery of the courtroom and watched as Ethan was led into the room. She hadn’t seen him since the night her dad was murdered, and nausea rose in her throat. When her stomach twisted into a knot, she pressed her fist hard against her belly. She would not vomit in the courtroom. She would not show Ethan how much he affected her.
On her left, her mother reached for her hand and squeezed. Held on, and Zoe clung to her. Her sister Anneliese was on her right. She gripped Zoe’s other hand, rubbing her fingers over Zoe’s wrist. Annie leaned closer, pressing her shoulder against Zoe’s. Zoe took a deep breath, squeezed their hands and let some of the tension flow out of her.
Ethan wore an orange jumpsuit. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Another set of cuffs circled his ankles, and a chain connected them to his handcuffs. A uniformed deputy held his elbow.
For a moment, Zoe felt sorry for Ethan. The cuffs on his wrists looked tight, and the chains on his ankles made him lurch from side to side as he walked. He stumbled several times as he edged across the front of the room.
But at least Ethan was alive and able to walk into the courtroom. Her father had been in the ground for almost a year.
Ethan’s lawyer stood up when the deputy steered Ethan toward the table on the left side of the room. Ethan shuffled sideways and fell into the chair the lawyer held for him.
When Ethan glanced behind him, scanning the long benches in the courtroom, Zoe shrank into her chair in the gallery. Was he looking for her? Trying to connect with her?
But he never looked up. Never tried to meet her gaze. And when the bailiff called, “All rise,” Ethan struggled to his feet.
Zoe and her mother and sister stood as well, and the judge strode into the courtroom, her robe billowing behind her. She slid into her chair and said, “Be seated, please.”
She studied some papers on her desk, then looked up. Her gaze touched on Ethan, and Zoe thought she saw a hint of sympathy in the judge’s eyes. Then her gaze turned to the man on the other side of the aisle.
“Mr. State’s Attorney, I understand you’ve reached a plea deal with Mr. Davies.”
The State’s Attorney stood up. “We have, Your Honor,” he said.
“What are the terms of the deal?” the judge asked.
“Mr. Davies has agreed to plead guilty to second degree manslaughter. In exchange, he will be sentenced to five years in the Middleton Psychiatric Facility. It’s the opinion of my office that Mr. Peyton’s death was an accident, and Mr. Davies is remorseful. Prison would be inappropriate. Treatment in a suitable facility is the right choice. The court hopes that Mr. Davies can be helped more by treatment than imprisonment.”
The judge turned her gaze to Ethan and his lawyer. “Do you accept this plea deal and the sentence?” she asked.
Ethan’s lawyer stood up. “We do, Your Honor.”
The judge looked directly at Ethan. “Do you understand what this means, Mr. Davies? You’ll serve five years in treatment at the Middleton Psychiatric Facility, then you’ll be released.”
His lawyer nudged Ethan, and he struggled to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. His voice was so low that Zoe could barely hear him.
“Do you accept this sentence?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Ethan said again.
The judge banged her gavel on her desk and stood up. “Plea accepted,” she said, then looked toward the bailiff. “Bring in the next defendant,” she said.
The woman sitting directly behind Ethan buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Ethan’s lawyer helped him stand, and Ethan turned around awkwardly. “It’s okay, Ma,” he said, his voice barely reaching the gallery. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you on Sunday, okay?”
His mother reached for his hand. Gripped it so hard her fingers turned white. “I’ll be there, Ethan,” she promised.
Zoe watched as Ethan was led slowly out of the room. He didn’t look back at his mother or anyone else in the courtroom, and the door closed behind him with a solid thump.
* * *
Eight years later
Ethan watched as the garage door groaned its way up. When it lurched to a halt with a grinding noise, he drove his mother’s old Subaru Outback into the garage, slid out of the car and headed for the house. He pushed the button to close the door as he exited the garage.
As he walked into the kitchen, the house was silent. Nothing cooking on the stove, but that was no longer unusual. His mother was in the final stages of liver failure and had no energy to fix a meal for Ethan. And she rarely ate anything that Ethan prepared.
Hanging his coat on its hook by the back door, he walked through the house. “I’m home, Ma,” he called.
