Chapter 11: After the Plea
Mason’s plea did not restore the months Amy had lost to a sink, but it closed one noisy corridor of the case.
Rachel called on a Tuesday while Frederick napped with his palm open on the crib sheet. She spoke in the flat language of outcomes: reduced counts, restitution schedule, no-contact language reinforced. Teresa’s separate track continued—slower, angrier, punctuated by filings that accused everyone of misunderstanding tradition. Tradition, Rachel noted dryly, was not a defense to forgery. I filed the note in my head next to the memory of bread between Amy’s teeth.
Amy listened to my summary with her hands wrapped around a mug. “Does this mean we can stop checking the camera every hour?”
“We can check it every night instead,” I said. “Habit can shrink without disappearing.”
May you like
She nodded. Progress was a dimmer switch, not a light flipped once.
Work took me back to full site days. I started leaving the job at the time I had written on a sticky note inside the truck cab—home by six unless steel is falling. Steel rarely fell. I rarely stayed. Amy texted photos of Frederick’s mashed-banana art. I answered in the trailer between inspections. The men on my crew learned not to joke about “wife permission.” One of them said his mother-in-law had moved in too. I said, “Document the bank account.” He laughed, then stopped laughing when he saw my face.
