No way out

Chapter Seventy-six

Each of us serves different kinds of sentences, some imposed by law, some self-imposed, and some that are part of the inexplicable nature of life. Like everything else, we choose as often as we are chosen.

Roni Chase was sentenced to twenty-five years to life for kidnapping Evan and Cara Martin. All charges relating to the stolen guns and construction materials were dropped in exchange for her cooperation into the government’s ongoing investigation of the cross-border gun and drug trade. Her lawyer argued for leniency, citing her mother’s physical condition, her grandmother’s financial problems, and the fact that she’d saved my life on two occasions as mitigating circumstances, but the judge didn’t buy it.

Her lawyer asked me to testify on Roni’s behalf at her sentencing, threatening to subpoena me when I declined. She backed down when I assured her that I would do everything in my power from the witness stand to assure that Roni went away for a long, long time.

Lilly Chase did testify, fingering a cameo suspended from a gold chain around her neck as she spoke. She drew a line from her mother, Vivian Chase, to her granddaughter, Roni, shaking her head, saying Roni wasn’t responsible for the blood that ran in her veins, acknowledging on cross-examination that even if that was an explanation, it wasn’t an excuse.

Jimmy Martin finally spoke, explaining the impossible situation Roni put him in, any chance for leniency lost when it turned out he owned a Dodge Ram and the paint found at the scene of Eldon Fowler’s accident matched the paint on it. Kate wrote a letter to the court on his behalf, saying that she forgave him and did not consider him a threat to her safety, drawing on a well of forgiveness that was deeper than mine. It wasn’t enough to save him from a life sentence.

Peggy Martin moved away, taking Evan and Cara, saying that she and her children needed a fresh start. Lucy and I went to see them the day they left. She had been sober long enough to realize how good it felt and how hard it would be to stay that way. The kids were quiet and avoided eye contact with us, Peggy saying that they’d been seeing a therapist who’d referred her to a colleague in Seattle, where she had found a job.

“Debt paid?” Lucy asked me as we drove away.

“In full.”

Joy’s cancer made her oncologist a prophet when she died six months later. We spent her last weeks at Kansas City Hospice House, holding hands, whispering remembered stories, laughing when our versions didn’t match.

Memory, I discovered, is reconstructive, not reproductive, a collage of half-remembered names and faces. We can’t reproduce or remember exactly what happened. We bind bits of facts with pieces of our hearts, making the past easier, sweeter, and less painful. And so it was with letting her go, our last moments merging with our first.

Like Peggy Martin, I needed a fresh start. I had lost my children, believing that I could somehow reclaim them by saving others, alchemy for the guilty. I laid down that burden at last when I buried Joy, her words canceling all debts. You did your best. Now let us go. Though my body still shakes, my soul is steady.

I sold the house and everything in it. Lucy and Simon adopted Roxy and Ruby and promised me the use of their guest room until they turned it into a nursery.

I packed a bag and bought a ticket, running into Jeremiah Quinn at the airport.

“Coming or going?” he asked me.

“Going.”

“Where to?”

“San Diego.”

“Kate?” he asked, and I nodded. “One way or round trip?”

“We’ll see. Kansas City is a good town. Keep an eye on things while I’m away.”