Marco wrote me letters from prison. At first, they were angry. Then, they became desperate, begging to see Grace, swearing he had found God, swearing he had changed. I never opened a single one. I simply marked them “Return to Sender” and dropped them back in the mail. He had chosen money and cruelty over his family. Now, he had plenty of time to count his imaginary coins in a 6×8 concrete cell.
As for Chloe, she had been released on parole six months ago. But the internet never forgets. Her reputation was incinerated; she was a pariah in the social circles she once ruled. She lived under the shadow of shame, unable to regain her status, forever known as the woman who attacked an unborn child.
My father sat beside me on the bench, slightly out of breath, watching his granddaughter soar on the swing.
“You did good, Isabella,” he said, patting my hand. “You’re stronger than I ever was.”
I smiled at him, feeling the warmth of the weak autumn sun on my face. “You taught me that justice isn’t something you ask for, Dad. It’s something you take.”
I was no longer the scared woman trembling in the parking garage. I was Isabella Ricci—mother, survivor, protector.
And parked at the curb was my new car. In the back seat, perfectly installed and spotlessly clean, was a pristine baby seat that no one, ever again, would dare to touch.
