Chapter 9 - The Trial and The Silence
Six months later, I sat in the witness lounge of the county courthouse for the final restitution hearing.
I was no longer in a wheelchair.
I walked with a sleek, polished carbon-fiber cane, my right leg fully functional, supported by a discreet knee sleeve beneath my charcoal business trousers. Every step required effort and concentration, but the bone was healed, the joint was solid, and the strength was returning week by week.
The double doors of the courtroom opened, and Althia emerged, flanked by her state-appointed public defender.
She looked twenty years older.
The expensive salon color had faded from her hair, revealing gray roots. Her nails were short, unpolished, and raw. She wore a drab beige cardigan from a discount department store and flat, practical shoes.
She saw me standing there, straight and tall, holding my cane with steady poise.
Althia stopped. For a second, the old, arrogant sneer flickered across her mouth, but it died quickly, crushed under the weight of reality.
“Fallon,” she whispered, stepping toward me. “Fallon, please. Look at me. They’re taking everything. The judge ordered my pension account liquidated to pay your legal fees. We have nothing left. Stellin is working sixty hours a week. My back is ruined from cleaning corporate offices for community service.”
I watched her quietly, feeling no anger. No hatred.
Just an empty, quiet void where family loyalty used to live.
“You forged my name, Mother,” I said, my voice level. “You watched my leg snap on marble steps, and your only concern was whether Alden’s wealthy parents were watching. You chose Sutton’s vanity over my life.”
“She was your sister!” Althia cried, tears finally leaking down her wrinkled cheeks. “A mother protects her younger child!”
“A mother loves her children,” I replied calmly. “You didn't love Sutton. You used her as an accessory to stroke your own social ambitions. And you used me as the bank to pay for it.”
Althia’s public defender gently touched her arm, signaling that it was time to leave.
“Are you ever coming home?” Althia choked out, looking at me like a stranger on the street. “Will you ever speak to us again?”
“I am home,” I said, glancing over her shoulder at the Seattle rain beating softly against the tall glass windows. “And this is the last conversation we will ever have.”
I didn't wait to watch her walk away.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction, the steady, rhythmic *click* of my carbon-fiber cane echoing against the terrazzo floors of justice.
Two weeks later, the final letter from the state department of corrections arrived.
It was a handwritten letter from Sutton, sent from the correctional facility in Chino.
I didn't open it.
I didn't need to read eight pages of self-pity, blame, and manufactured apologies designed to coax money out of my accounts.
May you like
I walked over to the kitchen island, held the envelope over the stainless-steel trash can, and dropped it into the dark.
***
