Linda stared at me with hatred so pure it almost looked like grief.
Ryan would serve his own sentence. His legal name reverted in federal records to Evan Cole Varner, though by then names mattered less than accountability. He wrote me one letter. I did not open it. Sarah filed it where it belonged.
Evidence.
Life continued.
I commanded. I mentored. I made mistakes. I laughed more. I grew basil badly and roses surprisingly well. My hair reached my chin by the following winter, and one morning I cut it short again—not because anyone forced me, but because I liked the way it framed my face.
Choice transformed even scissors into freedom.
On the anniversary of the night Linda shaved my head, I returned home after a long day at headquarters. The house was warm. Rain tapped the windows. A lamp glowed in the office that had once been a bedroom.
