Slowly, the fear that had defined my life for three years began to fade.

I stopped checking the locks three times before going to bed.

I stopped looking over my shoulder at the grocery store.

In January, a silver Mercedes pulled up to my curb while I was raking dead leaves in the front yard.

The window rolled down, and Evelyn Whitmore looked out at me.

Her face was pale, and she looked older than she had in the courtroom.

“Emily,” she said, her voice thin.

I stood my ground, holding the rake tightly in both hands.

“What do you want, Evelyn?” I asked.

“Grant is in trouble,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “The federal investigators are looking into his real estate transactions.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” I said.

“If you testify on his behalf, if you tell them he was a good father and a stable provider, I will make sure you are taken care of,” she said.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a leather checkbook.

“Name your price,” she said.