“I could not get through this without you,” she told him.

“I think you could, you’re that strong. But I’m glad you don’t have to. You’ll never have to go through anything alone again.”

When the day for Brie to testify finally arrived she went bravely and calmly to the stand to be sworn in. No testimony about her prosecution of him for previous crimes could be admitted by the prosecutor, so she was left to describe the details of her rape. As she took her seat and looked into the courtroom, she saw Brad in the back. Well, she thought, he was a part of it all, like it or not. Maybe they could all get their closure and get on with their lives.

“I had to work late and wasn’t home until after midnight. I opened the garage door, but I parked in the drive because the garage was full of junk that I’d been meaning to clean out for months. My car door wasn’t even closed when I was grabbed from behind, by the hair. He smashed my head into the top of the car. Then an arm came around my neck, choking me. I dropped my briefcase and was trying to get into my purse. I carried a gun. But the purse was flung away—I’m not sure if he did it or if I lost control of it in the struggle.”

“Did you struggle, Ms. Sheridan?”

“I fought with everything I had, and he hit me, three or four times in the face. I blacked out for a moment. When I came to, I was on the ground and he was leaning over me. He was smiling. It was so evil, so terrifying, I froze. That’s when he reached under my skirt and tore my hose and my underwear off. Well, not off. Down. He held a hand around my throat to keep me still while he undid his trousers with his other hand. I was choking.”

She looked at her brother and Mike. Jack frowned and looked down, but Mike held her gaze. Steady. She knew that inside he was in terrible pain, hearing what she’d been through, but for her he kept a strong front, chin up, eyes level.

“Did he say anything?” the prosecutor asked.

“Objection. Your Honor?”

The judge put his hand over the microphone and leaned toward Brie. “Can you answer the question without introducing any prohibited information?”

“Of course,” she said. She had to focus on the lawyers’ faces. “He said, ‘Look at me. I want you to see my face. I’m not leaving any evidence behind. I’m not going to kill you. I want you to live.’”

“And did that make you feel safe?” the prosecutor asked.

“He was putting on a condom as he said that. When it was on, he raped me, holding me down at the neck. I thought I was going to choke to death. I felt like I was being ripped apart. When he was done, he pulled his pants up and I watched—that condom went with him, inside his pants. Then he stood up and kicked me several times. I lost consciousness.” She went on to describe the injuries she sustained as photos taken at the hospital were passed around the jury box. Her voice was steady, her words well chosen and clear, but tears ran down her cheeks and dripped onto hands folded in her lap. And inside, her stomach churned violently. It was almost enough to double her over.

“Did he say anything else?”

“Objection! Your Honor?”

“Sustained,” he said.

“That’s all I have for now,” the prosecutor said.

The defense attorney got up and started asking her questions about the time of night, whether she was tired, did she wear glasses, was it dark or was the drive well lit, all aimed at throwing doubt on her ability to make an ID. The room began to sway before her eyes and she wavered a bit. The judge leaned over and asked her if she could continue. “You’re looking a little pale,” he pointed out.

“Let’s just do it,” she whispered back.

The defense took up an hour with questions about her schedule, her health, her mental stability, even her divorce. Finally he said, “Did you pick the suspect out of a lineup?”

“No. He fled.”

“Did the police show you photos?”

“I did look at photos, yes.”

“And that was how long ago?”

“Seven months ago,” she said, and her face glistened in sweat.

“Do you see the man you identified in this room? This man you identified to police as your rapist?”

“Right there,” she said, pointing. “Jerome Powell.”

“And you’re confident that a man you identified from a photo seven months ago is this man?”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide, at attention. The prosecutor in her had kicked in.

“Yes or no, Ms. Sheridan.”

She leaned forward. “No,” she answered.

By the look on his face, the defense attorney immediately knew what he’d done.

“Your Honor, may we approach?” Brie’s lawyer asked.

The lawyers went to the bench and a heated argument ensued, every bit of which Brie could hear. The prosecutor argued that he was entitled to explore that last answer while the defense argued that it would ultimately introduce testimony on evidence not allowed. At length the judge admonished the defense attorney that he had opened the door and the prosecution could proceed.

“Ms. Sheridan,” the prosecutor asked, “how is it you’re not confident that the man you identified from the photo is this man?”

“Because I looked at photos, but I didn’t identify him from a photo.”

“And how did you identify your rapist?”

“I gave the police his name. I knew him.”

“And how did you know him?”

“I was an assistant district attorney when he raped me. I had just prosecuted him for the serial rape of six women—and I lost.”

So much noise erupted in the room that the judge had to bang his gavel several times and threaten to clear the courtroom.

When the din had finally subsided, the prosecutor asked her, “Did he say anything else to you, Ms. Sheridan?”

“Yes. He said, ‘I’m not going to kill you. I want you to try to come after me again, and watch me walk again.’”

The place went crazy with gasps and murmurings, the judge banging his gavel again and again. But it was at that moment that Brie allowed herself to look again at Mike. Her lips curved in a very small smile as she locked eyes with him. Even at that distance she could feel the pride in his gaze. Love and pride and commitment. He smiled at her and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. She’d done it. She’d got him. It was why she’d come.

“That’s all I have for Ms. Sheridan,” the ADA said.

The defense tried to recover, asking Brie if there was any chance she was out to get this guy, since she had failed to convict him before. Her voice clear and strong, even knowing that possibility would be contained in the defense attorney’s closing arguments, she said, “And leave another rapist out there? My rapist? The police not even searching for him because they thought they had the suspect? Not hardly.”

“Perhaps you couldn’t identify your rapist, Ms. Sheridan, and saw your chance to go after the defendant.”

“Objection,” the prosecutor shouted. “Your Honor!”

The judge leveled his gaze on the defense. “Was there a question in there or are you just testing me to see what it’ll take to find you in contempt?”

“Is that possible, Ms. Sheridan?”

“It is not,” she said. “I saw him, I knew him, I identified him.”

“You may step down, Ms. Sheridan.”

She rose on shaky legs, grateful to be finished, to have finished strong. No way they could let him go now. No way a single jury member could doubt. Now that the door was open to Powell’s motivation for raping her, they could look at his past, at his previous arrests.

She stepped down and started toward Mike. Then she collapsed.

When Brie had delivered her final statement Mike saw her face go pale, then white. As she left the stand and started to walk toward him, he noticed that her eyes had become glassy and she wasn’t walking in a straight line. He started to come to his feet just as she fainted. “Brie!” he yelled. The bailiff stopped him until the prosecutor identified him as her husband—though he was not.

Mike rushed to her. By the time he lifted her head, her eyes were opening. “I did it, darling.”

“Can we get an ambulance here?” Mike yelled.

“On the way, sir,” someone said.

“Lo siento mucho,” she whispered. “I’m sorry you had to go through all this.”

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. You’re done with it now. All of it.”

“Te amo, Miguel. I love you.”

“Te amo mucho,” he said. “It’s over, baby.”

Every afternoon when it was almost David’s nap time, Mel would drive out to the Andersen ranch. Doc went out there every morning and most evenings. They’d been doing this since the second week in January when Lilly’s chemo and radiation had been suspended. There comes a time in every life when the curtain is coming down, and when that time is present and there’s no way to turn back the clock, the best answer is dignity and peace.

When Mel arrived at the ranch, she greeted family members and put David down in Chloe’s crib with his afternoon bottle where he would sleep for a couple of hours. Then she went to Lilly’s bedroom, checked the morphine drip and kissed her on the forehead. “How’s my girl today?” she asked.

“I think this is a good day to talk to the kids,” she said weakly. “I don’t want to miss my opportunity.”

“Okay,” Mel said.

“Will you help me?”

“Of course. Let’s see who we can gather up.”

Mel went to the living room and kitchen. Lilly’s daughters were there, her sons out in the barn with their dad. “Your mom wants to talk to you about something important. Can you round up your dad and brothers?”

“I’ll go,” Sheila said.

Back in the bedroom, sitting down again beside Lilly and taking her hand, Mel said, “It’s going to be okay, you know.”

“I know. I owe you so much, Mel.”

“Oh, it’s the other way around. If I hadn’t found Chloe on Doc’s porch, I’d have made it all the way to Colorado Springs without ever knowing my husband, without having my children.”

Only five of Lilly’s seven kids were present, but that was enough for her to make a clean breast of it. Buck stayed in the kitchen with Chloe, bouncing her on his knee as he had with the six children before her. “This is going to shock you,” Lilly said to her grown children. “I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I lied to you. I was a little bit crazy,” she said, and then was sent into a coughing fit and had to rest for a little while, her children looking at each other in confusion.

“Whew,” Lilly said when she recovered. “I have to get this over with. Chloe isn’t adopted,” she said weakly. “I gave birth to her, right here, in this bed. I covered my pregnancy with large and loose clothes and put her on Doc’s doorstep. Mel?” she said, looking up at her.

“I’m going to see if I can help out with this,” Mel said. “Your mom is so tired. Lilly was distraught at the thought of having another child to raise at the age of forty-eight, already being a grandmother seven times. She thought some nice young couple desperate for a baby would want to adopt her and that everyone would be better off—that Chloe would have young parents. But when no one came forward, Lilly took her back.”

“I regretted it so much,” Lilly said. “Your father thought it was crazy, but he was more afraid of what I might do if he didn’t go along with the idea. I was really out of my mind. So I pretended to foster and adopt her—but she’s your blood. I can’t die without you knowing.”

Lilly’s oldest daughter, Amy, sat down beside her on the bed. She took her mother’s hand, kissed it gently and smiled. “Well, that certainly explains why she looks like all the rest of the Andersens.” She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek. “You shouldn’t worry so much. It’s okay.”