But I spent my days in Marisol’s office.

The office was on the tenth floor of a glass tower downtown.

It smelled of expensive paper and stale coffee.

We sat at a long teak table covered in manila folders.

“Stephanie is cooperating,” Marisol said, sliding a document toward me.

“Why?” I asked.

“The state offered her a plea deal,” Marisol explained. “Conspiracy charges dropped in exchange for her testimony.”

“She helped him steal my inheritance,” I said, looking at the signature on a forged deed.

“She did,” Marisol agreed. “But her testimony will put Derek away for a very long time.”

I looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the window.

The scars on my neck were faded but still there, a map of what he had done to me.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

The trial began three months later, in the heat of August.

The courtroom was large, with dark wood paneling and a high ceiling.

The air conditioning hummed constantly, keeping the room freezing cold.

I wore a high-collared navy blue suit to cover my neck.

Derek sat at the defense table.