Chapter 12
The trial lasted nine days.
Nine days of witnesses, evidence, cross-examinations, and revelations that kept the public glued to their screens.
Rebecca Thornton's sister testified about the bruises she'd seen on Rebecca's arms weeks before her death—bruises Rebecca had dismissed as "clumsiness."
Lily Ashford's roommate described the night Marcus showed up at their apartment uninvited, furious, reeking of alcohol. The next morning, Lily was dead.
Dr. Hoffman took the stand under his cooperation agreement and methodically detailed every fabricated document, every payment from Marcus, every step of the psychiatric fraud designed to make my eventual death look like a predictable tragedy.
And Vanessa—Vanessa testified for three full days. She described the operational mechanics of the embezzlement, the black-market medical fraud, the offshore accounts, and, most damningly, the specific conversations where Marcus described how each woman died.
"He called them 'exits,'" Vanessa said on her third day of testimony. "He said every relationship needed a clean exit strategy. Rebecca's was the parking structure. Lily's was the pills. Elena's was the balcony."
Marcus's defense crumbled further when his own cloud storage—subpoenaed by federal agents—revealed deleted photos of the loosened balcony railing, taken three weeks before my trust's maturity date.
He'd photographed his own preparation. The arrogance was staggering.
On the final day of trial, the prosecution played one last piece of evidence that I hadn't known about.
Agent Diaz had recovered a voicemail that Marcus left for Vanessa on the night of my "failed" murder—the night I woke up reborn and refused to sign.
His voice filled the courtroom through the speakers.
"Something's wrong with her. She's not signing. She's asking questions she's never asked before. I don't know what happened, but we might need to accelerate the exit. I'm thinking this week. Forget the eighteenth—I'll do it this weekend."
He was going to kill me even sooner. If I hadn't acted when I did, I would have been dead within days of my rebirth.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
When they returned, the foreperson stood.
"On the charge of first-degree murder in the case of Rebecca Thornton: guilty."
"On the charge of first-degree murder in the case of Lily Ashford: guilty."
"On the charge of attempted murder in the case of Elena Cross: guilty."
"On the charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, insurance fraud, and conspiracy: guilty on all counts."
Marcus stared straight ahead. He didn't react. Didn't blink. He'd already gone somewhere else inside his own head—a place where consequences didn't exist.
But consequences existed here.
The judge's sentencing came two weeks later.
Marcus Reed: two consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole, plus thirty years for financial crimes.
Vanessa Holt: twelve years, with possibility of parole after eight, in exchange for her cooperation.
Dr. Nathan Hoffman: seven years, medical license permanently revoked.
Linda Reed: four years for accessory to fraud.
And Caroline Cross, my mother—granted immunity in exchange for her testimony and evidence, but barred from any claim to the Cross Family Trust in perpetuity.
After the sentencing, reporters swarmed me outside the courthouse.
"Ms. Cross! How do you feel about the verdict?"
"Ms. Cross, what's next for you?"
I stood on those courthouse steps and breathed in the cold February air.
"I feel alive," I said. "For the first time in eight years, I feel genuinely alive."
Nine days of witnesses, evidence, cross-examinations, and revelations that kept the public glued to their screens.
Rebecca Thornton's sister testified about the bruises she'd seen on Rebecca's arms weeks before her death—bruises Rebecca had dismissed as "clumsiness."
Lily Ashford's roommate described the night Marcus showed up at their apartment uninvited, furious, reeking of alcohol. The next morning, Lily was dead.
Dr. Hoffman took the stand under his cooperation agreement and methodically detailed every fabricated document, every payment from Marcus, every step of the psychiatric fraud designed to make my eventual death look like a predictable tragedy.
And Vanessa—Vanessa testified for three full days. She described the operational mechanics of the embezzlement, the black-market medical fraud, the offshore accounts, and, most damningly, the specific conversations where Marcus described how each woman died.
"He called them 'exits,'" Vanessa said on her third day of testimony. "He said every relationship needed a clean exit strategy. Rebecca's was the parking structure. Lily's was the pills. Elena's was the balcony."
Marcus's defense crumbled further when his own cloud storage—subpoenaed by federal agents—revealed deleted photos of the loosened balcony railing, taken three weeks before my trust's maturity date.
He'd photographed his own preparation. The arrogance was staggering.
On the final day of trial, the prosecution played one last piece of evidence that I hadn't known about.
Agent Diaz had recovered a voicemail that Marcus left for Vanessa on the night of my "failed" murder—the night I woke up reborn and refused to sign.
His voice filled the courtroom through the speakers.
"Something's wrong with her. She's not signing. She's asking questions she's never asked before. I don't know what happened, but we might need to accelerate the exit. I'm thinking this week. Forget the eighteenth—I'll do it this weekend."
He was going to kill me even sooner. If I hadn't acted when I did, I would have been dead within days of my rebirth.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
When they returned, the foreperson stood.
"On the charge of first-degree murder in the case of Rebecca Thornton: guilty."
"On the charge of first-degree murder in the case of Lily Ashford: guilty."
"On the charge of attempted murder in the case of Elena Cross: guilty."
"On the charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, insurance fraud, and conspiracy: guilty on all counts."
Marcus stared straight ahead. He didn't react. Didn't blink. He'd already gone somewhere else inside his own head—a place where consequences didn't exist.
But consequences existed here.
The judge's sentencing came two weeks later.
Marcus Reed: two consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole, plus thirty years for financial crimes.
Vanessa Holt: twelve years, with possibility of parole after eight, in exchange for her cooperation.
Dr. Nathan Hoffman: seven years, medical license permanently revoked.
Linda Reed: four years for accessory to fraud.
And Caroline Cross, my mother—granted immunity in exchange for her testimony and evidence, but barred from any claim to the Cross Family Trust in perpetuity.
After the sentencing, reporters swarmed me outside the courthouse.
"Ms. Cross! How do you feel about the verdict?"
"Ms. Cross, what's next for you?"
I stood on those courthouse steps and breathed in the cold February air.
"I feel alive," I said. "For the first time in eight years, I feel genuinely alive."