Desmond.
From jail.
Threatening me like I was the villain.
I showed it to the attorney Reeves insisted I meet—Michael Chen—who had been assigned to help me navigate inheritance protections and legal filings.
Chen’s face darkened. “That’s witness intimidation. Prosecutable.”
He sent it to Reeves immediately.
Within the hour Reeves called: Desmond’s bail had been revoked. Phone privileges suspended.
“He’s panicking,” Reeves said. “Panicking people make mistakes. This helps.”
“Good,” I said, surprised by how cold my voice sounded.
Good for the case.
Good for justice.
Good for everyone except Desmond.
Exactly as it should be.
Chen drove me back to my apartment in Bridgeport—the tiny one-bedroom where I’d lived for thirty years. Thrift-store furniture. Faded wallpaper. A TV I’d bought used ten years ago. A modest, clean life built on a nurse’s pension.
He walked me to the door.
“Are you going to be okay alone tonight?” he asked. “I can arrange—”
“I’m fine,” I said, unlocking the door. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I’m used to it.”
I went inside and locked the door behind me.
The apartment was exactly as I’d left it this morning.
A lifetime ago.
I looked around and laughed—bitter, sharp.
What secrets could I possibly have that Desmond could expose?
It didn’t matter.
He would lie. Make things up. Try to destroy me the way he tried to kill me.
Let him.
I had truth. I had evidence.
And apparently, I had $2.3 million.
The next weeks blurred into a haze of meetings with prosecutors and victim advocates.
The media got hold of the story. Suddenly reporters were camped outside my building.
“How do you feel about your son trying to kill you?”
“Will you testify?”
“Are you keeping the inheritance money?”
I kept my head down. I didn’t answer.
But my former colleagues from Hartford General rallied around me. Nurses I’d worked with for decades called, visited, brought food I couldn’t eat.
“We always thought something was off about that boy,” one of them said softly. “Too smooth. Too cold.”
“You did your best, B,” another told me.
At night, when the building was quiet, the guilt tried to creep in.
Had Desmond been born like this?
Or had I failed him?
I worked so much. Left him alone so much. Maybe if I’d been home more—
No.
I stopped that thought like a hand on a throat.
I had done what I had to do to keep us alive.
Some people choose darkness no matter how much light you give them.
The trial was set for February.
The prosecutor, Elizabeth Park, coached me like I was preparing for surgery—precise, controlled.
“Keep answers short. Stick to facts. Don’t let the defense provoke you emotionally.”
We did mock cross-examinations. Her voice was firm every time I wavered.
“They’ll try to make you cry,” she said. “They’ll try to make you look unstable. You need to be calm. Cold. Like ice.”
Like ice.
I practiced that.
At night, I practiced keeping my face neutral and my voice steady, locking my emotions down so tight I felt like I was turning to stone.
The night before the trial, I couldn’t sleep. At 3:00 a.m., I made tea and didn’t drink it. I sat at my kitchen table and opened old photo albums.
Baby Desmond. Fat and happy.
Toddler Desmond, grinning with his first tooth missing.
Little League Desmond in uniform.
Teen Desmond at graduation.
Where had that child gone?
Or had he always been this person and I simply refused to see it?
At the very back of the album were the last photos I had of us together—Thanksgiving two years ago. His face was blank in every shot. No warmth. No smile.
I told myself he was stressed. Busy. Tired.
The truth had been right there in his eyes.
I closed the album and laid out my clothes for court—a navy dress, pearl earrings, low heels.
I would look like what I was.
A retired nurse. A mother.
Not weak. Just truthful.
I finally fell asleep near dawn.
The courthouse was packed.
Media. Spectators. Caroline Brennan’s family. Curious strangers who had read about the case and wanted to see the monster.
Elizabeth led me through the chaos to a private waiting room.
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