Chapter 13
In the weeks following the trial, the world tried to make me into something—a symbol, a cautionary tale, a brand.
Talk shows called. Publishers offered seven-figure book deals. A streaming service wanted to turn my story into a limited series.
I said no to all of it.
Not because I was ashamed. But because I was done performing. Done being a character in someone else's narrative.
Instead, I did the things I'd never been allowed to do.
I sold the penthouse—couldn't sleep there knowing what those balcony doors had been designed for. I bought a small house near the ocean, the kind of place with too many windows and not enough walls. The kind of place where you could see everything coming.
I met with Rebecca Thornton's sister and Lily Ashford's family. I gave them each a portion of the recovered assets—money that Marcus had stolen from their loved ones' lives and deaths.
Rebecca's sister cried. Lily's mother held my hands and said, "You survived for all three of you."
I established a foundation in their names—the Thornton-Ashford-Cross Fund—dedicated to investigating suspicious deaths of women in intimate partner relationships.
Sophie became my chief financial advisor. She quit her firm and joined the foundation full-time. "Someone's gotta make sure nobody steals your money again," she said with a grin.
Daniel Grayson remained my attorney. Agent Diaz sent me a holiday card.
And my mother—Caroline didn't reach out again after the trial. I didn't reach out either. Some relationships aren't meant to be repaired. Some bridges don't need rebuilding.
They just need to be acknowledged as gone.
...
One evening, six months after the verdict, I was sitting on my back porch watching the sunset when my phone buzzed.
An email from the state prison system.
*Inmate Marcus Reed has requested to add you to his approved visitation list. Do you accept?*
I stared at the screen for a long time.
In my past life, I would have gone. I would have sat across from him in that visiting room, still searching his face for the love I once believed existed. Still hoping for an explanation that would make everything make sense.
But this wasn't my past life.
I typed my response:
*Decline.*
Then I deleted the notification and set my phone face-down on the porch railing.
The sun was setting over the water, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The same sky I'd seen from the balcony—but this time, there was no loosened railing beneath my elbows. No trap waiting to open beneath my feet.
Just solid ground. Just the horizon.
The ocean breeze lifted my hair, and I closed my eyes.
For the first time, I wasn't dreaming about survival.
I was dreaming about living.
Talk shows called. Publishers offered seven-figure book deals. A streaming service wanted to turn my story into a limited series.
I said no to all of it.
Not because I was ashamed. But because I was done performing. Done being a character in someone else's narrative.
Instead, I did the things I'd never been allowed to do.
I sold the penthouse—couldn't sleep there knowing what those balcony doors had been designed for. I bought a small house near the ocean, the kind of place with too many windows and not enough walls. The kind of place where you could see everything coming.
I met with Rebecca Thornton's sister and Lily Ashford's family. I gave them each a portion of the recovered assets—money that Marcus had stolen from their loved ones' lives and deaths.
Rebecca's sister cried. Lily's mother held my hands and said, "You survived for all three of you."
I established a foundation in their names—the Thornton-Ashford-Cross Fund—dedicated to investigating suspicious deaths of women in intimate partner relationships.
Sophie became my chief financial advisor. She quit her firm and joined the foundation full-time. "Someone's gotta make sure nobody steals your money again," she said with a grin.
Daniel Grayson remained my attorney. Agent Diaz sent me a holiday card.
And my mother—Caroline didn't reach out again after the trial. I didn't reach out either. Some relationships aren't meant to be repaired. Some bridges don't need rebuilding.
They just need to be acknowledged as gone.
...
One evening, six months after the verdict, I was sitting on my back porch watching the sunset when my phone buzzed.
An email from the state prison system.
*Inmate Marcus Reed has requested to add you to his approved visitation list. Do you accept?*
I stared at the screen for a long time.
In my past life, I would have gone. I would have sat across from him in that visiting room, still searching his face for the love I once believed existed. Still hoping for an explanation that would make everything make sense.
But this wasn't my past life.
I typed my response:
*Decline.*
Then I deleted the notification and set my phone face-down on the porch railing.
The sun was setting over the water, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. The same sky I'd seen from the balcony—but this time, there was no loosened railing beneath my elbows. No trap waiting to open beneath my feet.
Just solid ground. Just the horizon.
The ocean breeze lifted my hair, and I closed my eyes.
For the first time, I wasn't dreaming about survival.
I was dreaming about living.