Richard nodded, his eyes shining with approval.

“I can help you with the renovation,” he said.

“I have contacts with the best contractors in the state.”

“We can make it comfortable, secure, and beautiful.”

Two weeks later, Margaret Whitmore was formally arraigned.

Nora and I stood in the back of the courtroom as she was brought in.

She looked smaller than I remembered, her expensive clothes replaced by a simple gray suit.

Her hair was unkempt, and her face was lined with anger.

She refused to look at me as the judge read the charges.

She pleaded guilty to the financial fraud charges in exchange for a reduced sentence.

She would spend the next five years in a minimum-security facility.

As they led her away, she glanced back at me.

Her eyes were still cold, but the power she once held over me was completely gone.

I felt no anger toward her, only a quiet pity.

I turned and walked out of the courtroom into the warm afternoon sun.

The next day, we moved out of Richard’s estate and back to the townhouse.