The morning of the sentencing, Lila woke before dawn.
She lay in the dark, the victim impact statement running through her head for the hundredth time. She'd written it three times. The first version had been too angry. The second too clinical. The third was somewhere in between, and she still wasn't sure it was right.
Ronan stirred beside her. "You're awake."
"Couldn't sleep."
"I'll make coffee."
"The good kind?"
"Is there another kind?"
"There's the kind I make."
"That's not coffee. That's brown water with ambition."
She almost smiled. "Rude. But fair."
He got up and left the room. A few minutes later, she heard the coffee grinder, and she made herself get out of bed.
The courtroom was quieter than it had been for the verdict.
Fewer journalists. Fewer spectators. The drama was over; sentencing was just the period at the end of a very long sentence.
Lila sat in the front row with Ronan on one side and Delia on the other. Patricia was there, and Sid and Grace were near the back. People who had known her father. People who wanted to see this end. People who cared about her.
Warren Caldwell sat at the defense table. He looked thinner than he had at the verdict, the bones of his face more prominent. Prison was wearing on him in ways money couldn't hide.
Good.
Judge Morrison entered. The formalities took only a few minutes—confirming identities, reviewing charges, and acknowledging the verdict. Then he looked at the prosecution table.
"I understand we have a victim impact statement."
Sarah stood. "Lila Bennett, daughter of Daniel Bennett, would like to address the court."
"Ms. Bennett."
Lila's legs didn't feel attached to her body as she walked to the podium. She set her prepared statement on the wood and pressed her palms flat to steady herself.
"Your Honor, thank you for allowing me to speak."
She looked at the paper. The careful words she'd labored over.
She didn't read them.
"My father was a county surveyor," she said instead. "He measured land. Drew boundaries. Made sure people knew exactly where their property ended, and their neighbor's began. He used to say that accuracy mattered—that the small details were what kept everything from falling apart."
She looked at Warren. He was watching her now, his face carefully blank.
"Five years ago, my father noticed that some boundaries had moved. Not by accident. Deliberately. Someone was changing the records, adjusting the lines, making property appear where it shouldn't. He started asking questions. Making notes. Trying to understand."
She paused. Swallowed.
"He never got the chance to finish. Because the man at that table decided my father's questions were inconvenient. That his accuracy, his attention to detail, his refusal to look the other way—those were problems to be solved."
Her voice was stronger now.
