Chapter 13 - THE CABIN
Police found the cabin before sunset.
Inside were boxes of financial records.
Old phones.
Fake identification.
Cash.
And Peter Lang’s laptop.
My mother had hidden everything.
She had prepared for disaster.
What she hadn’t prepared for was Connor remembering the place.
The laptop contained emails dating back twenty years.
Peter had kept them as insurance.
One email from Diane read:
I need something impossible to trace after a few hours.
Peter replied:
Nothing is impossible to trace. Only difficult.
Another:
How much?
My mother:
Enough that you never work again.
There it was.
Not just suspicion.
Not just implication.
A transaction for murder.
But the laptop also contained recent emails.
Emails about me.
About Grace.
About the trust.
Peter had warned Diane that the trust amendment prevented her from controlling the money.
She replied:
Then the amendment needs to disappear.
Peter:
I’m done helping you.
Diane:
You don’t get to decide when you’re done.
Three days later, he was dead.
The prosecution added a second murder charge.
For the first time, Diane’s lawyer began discussing a plea.
She refused.
“I did nothing wrong,” she reportedly told him.
That was my mother.
She could stand in a burning house holding the gasoline can and blame the smoke.
The trial began four months later.
Grace was not required to testify in open court.
Thank God.
Connor was.
I hated that.
But he insisted.
“I want Grandma to hear me.”
In court, Diane stared at him as he took the witness stand.
He looked so small.
Ten years old.
Blue tie.
Hands folded.
The prosecutor asked:
“Why did you record those videos?”
Connor swallowed.
“Because nobody believed Grace.”
My heart broke.
“Who didn’t believe her?”
“Adults.”
“Did Grace tell people she was being hurt?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“They said she was dramatic.”
The prosecutor showed a still image from the haircut video.
“Who is holding Grace?”
“My grandmother.”
“And who is cutting her hair?”
“My mom.”
“Did Grace agree?”
“No.”
“What was she doing?”
“Crying.”
Connor looked directly at Diane.
“She kept saying stop.”
My mother’s expression didn’t move.
Then the defense attorney stood.
He tried to suggest Connor misunderstood adult discipline.
That was a mistake.
“Connor, isn’t it true your grandmother sometimes disciplined you?”
“Yes.”
“And discipline can feel unpleasant?”
“Yes.”
“So maybe what you saw was discipline?”
Connor stared at him.
Then he said:
“If you have to hide it from police, it’s probably not discipline.”
A few people in the courtroom reacted.
The judge silenced them.
The defense attorney changed direction.
After court, Connor ran into my arms.
“You did amazing,” I whispered.
He looked exhausted.
“Is it over?”
“Soon.”
But it wasn’t.
That evening, my phone rang.
It was the district attorney.
“Rachel, we have a problem.”
“What?”
“Your mother wants to change her plea.”
“That sounds like good news.”
“It would be.”
He paused.
“Except she says she’ll confess only if she gets to speak to Grace first.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
“She says she has information about your father that she’ll only reveal under that condition.”
“No.”
“Rachel—”
“She doesn’t get near my daughter.”
“I understand.”
Then he said quietly:
May you like
“She claims your father had another child.”
I stopped breathing.
