Chapter 9

The new year brought a different kind of challenge,

and it came in the form of a phone call.

I was in the pantry doing inventory,

when my cell phone rang.

It was a number I did not recognize,

but the area code was from the state capital.

I answered it,

and a polite voice asked for Marian Harlow.

The caller identified himself as a victim liaison officer for the parole board.

My grip on the clipboard tightened,

and the air in the pantry suddenly felt very thin.

He informed me that Rebecca Harlow had filed for an early parole hearing,

citing good behavior and a completed rehabilitation program.

He asked if I wanted to submit a written statement,

or if I wanted to appear in person to testify.

I stood perfectly still,

staring at a row of canned beans.

I asked him when the hearing was scheduled.

He said it was in six weeks,

on a Tuesday morning.

I thanked him,

and I ended the call.

The quiet of the pantry was deafening.

Six weeks.

It felt like a lifetime,

and it felt like tomorrow.

I walked out of the pantry,

and I saw Andrew laughing with a customer.

He looked so light,

and he looked so free.

I could not bring this dark cloud back over his head,

and I could not let her name ruin his peace.

I decided in that moment that I would not tell him about the hearing.

It was my burden to carry,

because I was the homeowner she had tried to destroy.

I called Mr. Callahan that afternoon,

and I told him the news.

He was quiet for a moment,

and then he asked me what I wanted to do.

I told him I was going to the hearing,

and I was going to look her in the eye.

He warned me that parole boards are unpredictable,

and he warned me that she might get out.

I told him I did not care about the board's decision,

because I needed to make my own statement.

I needed her to know that no matter what the state decided,

she was banished from our lives forever.

Over the next few weeks,

I carried the secret like a stone in my pocket.

I smiled at Andrew,

and I baked bread with Clara.

I managed the kitchen with ruthless efficiency,

channeling my nervous energy into the work.

But at night,

I lay awake,

practicing the words I would say to the woman who had tried to steal my life.

I would not shout,

and I would not cry.

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I would be the stone that breaks the blade,

and I would be the final door closing in her face.