Chapter 8
When it was my turn to testify, my scar started burning again.
It did that sometimes.
Not from heat.
From memory.
I walked to the stand with my shoulders back.
Patricia watched me the whole way.
I took the oath.
My voice did not shake.
The prosecutor began gently.
She asked about my marriage.
About Patricia moving in.
About the insults.
The rules.
The way Michael stopped disagreeing with his mother and started repeating her.
Then she asked about the stove.
The courtroom screen showed the kitchen video.
I did not look away.
I watched Patricia grab my wrist.
I watched myself scream.
I watched Michael stand in the doorway.
The jury watched too.
Some leaned forward.
One woman covered her mouth.
The prosecutor asked, “What did you feel in that moment?”
I looked at Patricia.
“Betrayed.”
“By whom?”
“My husband first.”
Michael lowered his head.
“Why first?”
“Because I knew Patricia hated me. I did not know Michael would let her hurt me.”
Patricia’s lawyer tried to tear me apart.
He called me angry.
I said yes.
He called me defensive.
I said yes.
He asked if I slapped Michael.
“Yes.”
He asked if I threw water at Patricia.
“Yes.”
He smiled like he had caught me.
“So you admit you became violent.”
“I admit I survived.”
He paused.
“Mrs. Reyes—”
“Ms. Reyes,” I corrected.
A few people shifted in the gallery.
His mouth tightened.
“Ms. Reyes, you expect this jury to believe you were helpless while you managed to strike two people?”
“No,” I said. “I expect them to understand the difference between abuse and self-defense.”
His face reddened.
“No further questions.”
Denise testified after me.
Then Detective Moore.
Then the forensic accountant who showed Michael’s debt.
Then a medical expert who explained how Patricia stole and altered prescriptions at the nursing facility.
The case became a map of greed.
Patricia at the center.
Michael orbiting her, weak and willing.
Cassandra trying to expose them.
Me almost becoming the next story they would control.
The jury deliberated for two days.
I stayed in the courthouse waiting room with Mrs. Flores, Denise, Grace, and Detective Moore.
Nobody said much.
There are only so many words you can use while waiting for a room of strangers to decide what your pain means.
When the jury returned, Patricia stood without wobbling.
Michael stood too.
He had already pleaded to lesser charges, but his sentencing would come later.
Patricia faced the jury like she expected obedience.
The foreperson read the verdict.
Guilty of theft.
Guilty of fraud.
Guilty of evidence tampering.
Guilty of conspiracy.
Guilty of attempted insurance fraud.
Guilty of assault against me.
Then Cassandra’s count.
Guilty of murder.
Denise made a sound like grief leaving her body.
I grabbed her hand.
Patricia did not move.
Not until the judge revoked her custody pending sentencing.
Then she turned.
Not to the jury.
Not to her lawyer.
To Michael.
“You useless boy,” she spat.
There she was.
The real Patricia.
No pearls could hide her now.
Michael flinched.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Then I remembered the doorway.
Arms crossed.
Blank face.
No.
Pity was not mine to carry.
Sentencing came later.
Patricia received life.
Michael received twelve years for conspiracy, fraud, evidence tampering, and his role in the insurance plot.
He cried when they took him away.
I did not.
Outside the courthouse, Denise hugged me.
“Cassandra would have liked you,” she whispered.
I cried then.
May you like
Not because it was over.
Because some endings arrive holding the hands of people who should still be alive.
