I spent my days sitting by the window, watching the grey winter sky transition into a chilly spring.

The physical scars on my arms from the assault were fading, turning into thin silver lines.

My attorney, a sharp-faced woman named Sarah Jenkins, kept us updated daily.

The state was moving to freeze every bank account associated with my family’s real estate business.

The grand jury had returned indictments for attempted murder, grand theft, kidnapping, and forgery.

On the morning of the trial, the air was crisp and smelled of rain.

The Franklin County Court of Common Pleas was a massive building of grey stone and polished marble.

Wyatt walked beside me, his hand resting on the small of my back.

We took our seats behind the prosecution table.

The room was quiet, save for the rustling of papers and the low murmur of reporters in the back row.

The side door opened, and deputies escorted my family into the courtroom.

My mother came first, wearing a plain grey jumpsuit, her hair unwashed and limp.

She did not look at me.