Neither had her guilt.
She had planned my death.
She had also sabotaged her own plan.
She had handed Sabine the drug.
Then chosen a coffin with an emergency release.
She had helped falsify my death.
Then recorded evidence against the others.
She had tracked me.
Then left me clues.
She had carried pills to kill me.
Then never used them.
Deborah Mercer had spent months trying to be two people at once.
The woman who wanted the money.
And the mother who could not murder her child.
She had failed at both.
Quade looked at me.
“Does this change anything?”
I thought about it.
The trial.
The sentence.
The betrayal.
“No.”
And surprisingly, I meant it.
Understanding is not forgiveness.
Context is not absolution.
People are responsible for the choices they complete, not just the better choices they almost make.
But that night, I visited my mother.
For the first time since sentencing.
She entered the prison visiting room wearing beige clothes and no makeup.
She looked startled when she saw me.
We sat across from each other.
Neither spoke for a while.
Finally, I placed the photocopied funeral form against the glass.
Her eyes dropped to it.
She understood immediately.
“You found out.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“The emergency latch.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever find it?”
“No.”
A strange sad smile crossed her face.
“I suppose Julian was faster.”
“Why did you choose that coffin?”
My mother looked at me.
For once, she did not lie.
“I wanted the money.”
I waited.
“And?”
“I wanted you alive.”
“You couldn’t have both.”
“I know.”
“Yet you tried.”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“That almost killed me.”
“I know.”
We sat inside the consequences of those words.
Then she leaned toward the glass.
“I used to think evil people woke up every morning knowing exactly what they were.”
I said nothing.
“They don’t.”
Her eyes filled.
“They explain themselves to themselves.
One small explanation at a time.”
I felt tears burning my eyes.
“Until what?”
“Until they’re standing beside their daughter’s coffin wondering how they got there.”
I looked down.
For years, I had believed monsters announced themselves.
They did not.
Sometimes they packed your lunch.
Sometimes they remembered your birthday.
Sometimes they sat beside your hospital bed.
Sometimes they raised you.
Sometimes they loved you.
