While I was away, my parents sold the small house my late husband had left me and used the money to purchase my sister the home she had always dreamed of.

Martin Graves called Vera on a Friday morning in early April.

She relayed the conversation to me that afternoon.

"Raymond wants to negotiate.

Graves is proposing a guilty plea on the fraud charge — reduced to a single count of document falsification — in exchange for Raymond's cooperation with the accident investigation."

"What kind of cooperation?"

"Full disclosure of his communications with Gary Sell.

Dates, instructions, payments.

Everything."

I was quiet for a moment.

"He's trying to reduce his own exposure by giving up Sell."

"Yes.

And potentially implicating himself in the process, which Graves is gambling will read as remorse and cooperation rather than culpability." Vera's voice was careful.

"The DA is interested.

A guilty plea on the fraud charge is a guaranteed conviction.

And Raymond's testimony about Sell could be the key to a vehicular homicide charge."

"What does Raymond get out of it?"

"The fraud charge drops from felony to misdemeanor.

Possible probation instead of prison time on that count.

The accident investigation charges, if any, would be negotiated separately."

"So he avoids prison for stealing from me."

"Possibly.

In exchange for helping build the case for what happened to Wyatt." Vera paused.

"I know how that feels.

I want you to know that the DA consulted me before responding to Graves, and I told them your position matters in this.

It's your call, Sabrina."

I thought about it for a long time.

Long enough that Vera didn't rush me.

"What does Rourke think?" I asked.

"She thinks Raymond's testimony, combined with Sell's partial admission and the camera footage, gives them a real case for vehicular homicide against Sell.

And depending on what Raymond discloses, potentially a charge of solicitation against Raymond himself — which would not be covered by the plea deal on the fraud charge."

"So even if he cooperates, he could still face charges for Wyatt."

"Yes.

Graves knows that.

He's betting that Raymond's cooperation will be weighed favorably by the court.

It's a gamble."

"Good," I said.

"Let him gamble."

I told Vera to tell the DA I had no objection to the negotiation proceeding.

Not because I wanted Raymond to escape consequences, but because I wanted the full truth about Wyatt on the record.

In a courtroom.

Under oath.

Whatever happened to Raymond after that was the court's business.

---

Raymond called me one more time.

It was a Sunday evening, three days after Vera told me the plea negotiation was moving forward.

I was in my kitchen making dinner — something simple, pasta and olive oil, the kind of meal that requires just enough attention to keep your hands busy.

I answered.

Vera was already on a conference line, as we had arranged.

"I want you to know," Raymond said, "that I didn't intend for Wyatt to d*e."

I set down my spoon.

"What did you intend?"

"I wanted him scared.

I wanted him to back off the attorney idea.

Sell was supposed to follow him, get close, make him understand that pushing this wasn't worth it." His voice was flat, rehearsed-sounding, the voice of a man who had been coached on exactly how much to say.

"What happened at the curve — that wasn't the plan."

"But you hired someone to follow your daughter's husband on a dark road at night," I said.

"And you said nothing when he d*ed.

You buried the survey.

You forged my signature.

You sold his house." My voice didn't shake.

"You let me grieve a random accident for four months."

Silence.

"I'm sorry, Sabrina."

"I know you are," I said.

"I think you're sorry about a lot of things right now.

I think you're mostly sorry that the camera existed." I picked up my spoon again.