Chapter 18 - THE PLEA DEAL
Six months passed.
The leaves changed color.
Noah started a new preschool, blissfully unaware of the storm we had survived.
The trial date was approaching.
But the prosecutor called me into his office on a rainy Thursday.
"Ethan's defense team wants to make a deal," the prosecutor said.
I sat straight up in my chair.
"No."
"I want him to stand trial."
"I want everything on the public record."
The prosecutor held up his hand.
"Hear me out, Emma."
"If we go to trial, they are going to tear you apart on the stand."
"They will use the fake medical records Marcus created."
"They will try to paint you as an unstable, forgetful wife."
"We will win, but it will be a media circus."
"It will drag on for months, maybe years."
I clenched my jaw.
"What's the deal?"
"He pleads guilty to all federal charges."
"Identity theft, wire fraud, conspiracy."
"He waives his right to appeal."
"He accepts a sentence of twenty-five years without parole."
Twenty-five years.
He would be nearly sixty by the time he got out.
"And Marcus?" I asked.
"Marcus is accepting a similar deal."
"Twenty years."
"What about Claire?"
The prosecutor sighed.
"Claire's cooperation was vital in securing these pleas."
"She provided the encrypted emails."
"She's getting five years, eligible for parole in three."
I looked out the window at the falling rain.
Five years for selling out her own blood.
Twenty-five years for trying to steal a child.
It didn't feel like enough.
It never would.
But the thought of sitting in a courtroom...
The thought of letting Ethan's lawyers twist my words...
The thought of dragging Noah through years of legal battles...
"Take the deal," I said quietly.
"But I have one condition."
The prosecutor leaned forward.
"What is it?"
"I get to read my victim impact statement in open court."
"And he has to be forced to look at me while I do it."
The prosecutor nodded.
"Done."
I walked out of the courthouse feeling a massive weight lift from my shoulders.
It was finally ending.
I drove to my dad's house to pick up Noah.
When I walked in, Dad was in the kitchen baking cookies.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"He's pleading guilty," I said.
"Twenty-five years."
Dad stopped stirring the dough.
He walked over and pulled me into a tight hug.
"I'm proud of you, Emma."
"You fought a monster, and you won."
I hugged him back, finally letting myself cry.
May you like
Not tears of fear.
Tears of relief.
