There was a long glass table, a stenographer sitting in the corner, and a video camera mounted on a tripod.

My father was already there, sitting near the window with a cup of coffee.

“Nolan’s lawyer is here,” my father said.

“They’re trying to negotiate a plea deal before we start.”

“No deals,” I said.

“He needs to go on the record.”

The door opened, and Sarah Vance walked in, followed by two federal marshals.

Between them walked Nolan.

He was wearing an orange jumpsuit from the detention center.

His hair was unwashed, and he had a dark stubble on his jaw.

He looked around the room, his eyes instantly finding me.

He tried to smile, but his lips just twitched.

“Evelyn,” he said, his voice raspy.

“Sit down, Mr. Pierce,” Sarah Vance said, her voice like ice.

Nolan sat in the metal chair at the end of the table.

His lawyer, a short man with a red face and a nervous habit of adjusting his glasses, sat next to him.

“We are on the record,” Sarah said to the stenographer.