They pushed me into a roaring fire pit to hide the $400,000 they stole from my trust, unaware that the neighbor’s night-vision camera recorded every second of their crime.

The jury deliberated for less than forty-five minutes.

When the courtroom bell rang signaling that a verdict had been reached, the tension in the room was suffocating.

Ethan held my hand tightly in his. My body felt warm, relaxed, and anchored. The scars under my clothes didn't ache anymore. The fire was finally out.

Judge Sterling took his seat on the bench. "Will the defendant please stand?"

Linda Carter stood up slowly, leaning heavily on the wooden table for support, her hands shaking violently.

"In the matter of State of North Carolina v. Linda Carter," the foreperson read from the paper, "on Count One, Attempted First-Degree Murder, we find the defendant... GUILTY."

Linda let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her knees buckling beneath her. Her attorney had to catch her arm to keep her from falling to the carpet.

"On Count Two, Felony Embezzlement... GUILTY."

"On Count Three, Obstruction of Justice... GUILTY."

Judge Sterling didn't delay sentencing. He looked down at my mother with a cold, unyielding authority that filled the courtroom.

"Linda Carter," Judge Sterling said, his voice echoing off the high plaster ceilings. "In my thirty years on the judicial bench, I have witnessed many acts of human depravity. But the cold, calculated, financial execution of your own child—and the corrupting influence you exerted over your younger daughter—is among the most abhorrent crimes I have ever adjudicated."

He picked up his pen and signed the formal commitment order.

"I sentence you to a minimum of twenty-six years, maximum thirty-two years, in the North Carolina Department of Corrections without the possibility of parole. You will be transferred immediately to the Anson Correctional Institution."

The judge slammed his gavel down. CRACK.

My mother didn't scream. She didn't weep. She collapsed into her chair like a hollow doll whose stuffing had been pulled out.

As the bailiffs picked her up by her arms to lead her toward the holding cells, her eyes caught mine across the gallery one final time.

She looked for mercy. She looked for grief. She looked for the obedient, desperate-to-please daughter she had manipulated for thirty-four years.