“Okay.”
The trial started on a cold Monday in March.
Emily testified on the second day.
I sat in the front row and watched my daughter stand in front of a courtroom full of strangers and tell them what Caleb Torres had done to her.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t break.
She spoke clearly, precisely, and without hesitation.
And when the defense attorney tried to twist her words, tried to suggest she was exaggerating, tried to imply she’d wanted it—
Emily looked him dead in the eye and said, “I didn’t want any of it. I was terrified. And I stayed because he threatened to kill my best friend.”
The courtroom went silent.
The defense attorney sat down.
The second victim testified the next day.
Her name was Rachel, and her story was almost identical to Emily’s.
The third victim, a woman named Sophie, testified the day after that.
By the time the prosecution rested, there was no doubt left.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
Guilty on all counts.
Caleb Torres was sentenced to twelve years.
Emily cried when she heard the verdict.
Not because it was over.
Because it was finally real.
He couldn’t hurt her anymore.
We went out to dinner that night.
Emily, me, Thomas, Diane, Madison, and Greg, who’d flown in for the sentencing.
We didn’t talk about the trial.
We didn’t talk about Caleb.
We talked about Emily’s new job.
We talked about her classes.
We talked about the future.
And for the first time in almost a year, Emily laughed.
