Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~7 min read
Chapter 24: Five Years Later
SLOANE
Five years since the trial.
Three years in Oregon.
I barely remember my old life.
I’m promoted.
Lead architect.
Running the entire West Coast division remotely.
Big salary. Bigger responsibilities.
But I can handle it.
I’ve handled worse.
Owen’s music studio is thriving.
Local artists. National clients.
He’s built something real.
We both have.
We decided not to have kids.
Mutual decision.
After a year of trying and soul-searching.
“I don’t need to be a mom to be fulfilled,” I told Dr. Morgan.
“And that’s okay. Not everyone needs the same things.”
“I think the trauma made me realize… I don’t want to pass anything on. Genetically. Emotionally. Any of it.”
“That’s a valid choice.”
“Owen’s okay with it?”
“He says he married me, not the idea of me with kids. So yeah, he’s okay.”
Instead, we got a dog.
Rescue. Mixed breed. Named River.
She’s perfect.
Loyal. Loving. Uncomplicated.
Everything I need.
I still speak at conferences.
Once a year now.
Enough to stay connected to the cause.
Not so much it consumes me.
Balance.
The Mitchell Act has led to over fifty convictions now.
Sexual assault by deception cases across California.
Other states are adopting similar laws.
Oregon. Washington. New York.
Change is happening.
Because survivors spoke up.
Because I spoke up.
I haven’t heard from either twin in three years.
Ethan was released last year.
Served his full five years.
As far as I know, he moved to the East Coast.
Far from me.
Good.
Everett has ten more years.
Got additional time for the prison assault.
And another incident I heard about through Rebecca.
Manipulating a female guard.
He can’t help himself.
Predator through and through.
I try not to think about him.
About what happens when he gets out.
I’ll be forty-five.
He’ll be forty-nine.
Still dangerous.
But I’ll be ready.
Life is good.
Really good.
Owen and I celebrated our third anniversary last month.
Took a trip to Italy.
Ate pasta. Drank wine. Made love in a hotel overlooking the ocean.
Normal couple things.
Beautiful, boring, perfect things.
Jade visits twice a year.
We’re still best friends.
Still sisters in every way that matters.
“You seem happy,” she says during her spring visit.
“I am.”
“Really? Not just saying it?”
“Really. I wake up every day and choose happiness. Some days it’s easy. Some days it’s hard. But I always choose it.”
“That’s growth.”
“That’s survival.”
Heath moved to Portland.
Two hours away.
Close enough to visit.
Far enough to have his own life.
He’s dating someone.
Serious.
Might propose soon.
“She knows everything?” I ask when he tells me.
“Everything. She’s a therapist actually. Specializes in family trauma.”
“Perfect match then.”
He laughs.
“Yeah. I have a type apparently.”
My parents are aging.
Dad’s health is declining.
Mom’s taking care of him.
They visit when they can.
I visit them more.
Cherishing time.
Knowing it’s finite.
I get a letter.
Forwarded from my old address.
From Vivian.
I haven’t heard from her in years.
Inside:
*”Sloane, I’m dying. Cancer. Stage four. I don’t have long. I wanted you to know: I left everything to survivors’ organizations. Every penny. Ethan and Everett get nothing. It’s the least I can do. I hope you’re well. I hope you’re happy. Thank you for surviving. – Vivian”*
She dies two weeks later.
I don’t go to the funeral.
But I send flowers.
White lilies.
For peace.
Rebecca calls.
“Vivian’s estate has been distributed. $2 million to various organizations. And she left you something.”
“Me?”
“A letter. And a box. I can mail it or you can pick it up next time you’re in California.”
“Mail it.”
The box arrives a week later.
Inside: photos.
Of Ethan and Everett as babies.
Toddlers.
Children.
Before they became what they became.
And a letter.
*”These are who they were before. I don’t know when they changed. Or why. But they were innocent once. I thought you might want to see that. To know that evil isn’t born. It’s made. I don’t know if that helps. But it’s all I have left to give. – V”*
I look at the photos.
Two little boys.
Identical. Smiling. Happy.
Before everything went wrong.
I don’t know how to feel.
Sad? Angry? Nothing?
I settle on: grateful it’s over.
I put the photos in the box.
Label it: “THE END.”
Put it in storage.
Next to the box labeled: “THE PAST.”
Closure.
Finally.
Owen finds me crying in the garage.
“What’s wrong?”
“Vivian died. Left me photos. Of them. As kids.”
He holds me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I think… I think I’m finally done. With all of it. The twins. The trauma. The past. I’m ready to just… be.”
“Then be.”
“It’s that simple?”
“It’s that simple.”
That night, I burn the photos.
In our fire pit.
Watching them turn to ash.
Letting them go.
Literally.
“Goodbye, Ethan. Goodbye, Everett. Goodbye, Vivian. Goodbye to all of it.”
The smoke rises.
Disappears into the night sky.
Gone.
I sleep deeply that night.
No nightmares.
No anxiety.
Just… peace.
The next morning, I wake up different.
Lighter.
Free.
Really, truly free.
For the first time in five years.
I call Dr. Morgan.
“I think I’m done with therapy.”
“Completely?”
“Maybe not completely. But regular sessions? I think I’m good.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Scared. But ready.”
“That’s exactly where you should be. You’ve done the work. You’ve healed. You know how to handle triggers. You have tools. You don’t need me anymore.”
“I might need you again someday.”
“And I’ll be here if you do. But for now? Go live your life.”
I do.
I start a new project.
Designing a women’s shelter.
Pro bono.
For survivors of domestic violence.
Safe. Secure. Beautiful.
Everything I wished I’d had.
The groundbreaking is six months later.
I’m there.
Giving a speech.
“This shelter will house fifty women and children. It will provide safety, resources, and hope. It’s named The Vivian Cole Memorial Shelter. Not because she was perfect. But because she tried, in the end, to make amends. And that matters.”
Applause.
Tears.
Hope.
Life continues.
Good days. Bad days. Mostly good.
Work. Love. Friends. Family.
Normal.
Beautifully, blessedly normal.
I write a book.
About my experience.
Not for money.
For healing.
For helping others.
It’s published by a small press.
Does moderately well.
But that’s not the point.
The point is: I told my story.
My way.
On my terms.
I get messages.
Hundreds of them.
From survivors.
*”Your story saved me.”*
*”I thought I was alone.”*
*”Thank you for speaking up.”*
Each one matters.
Each one reminds me why I fought.
Five years since the trial.
Three years in Oregon.
I’m not the same person I was.
I’m stronger.
Wiser.
Scarred, yes.
But healed.
Owen asks me one night: “Do you ever regret it? Any of it?”
“Marrying Ethan?”
“All of it.”
I think about it.
“I regret the pain. The trauma. The violation. But I don’t regret who I became because of it. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense.”
I am a survivor.
Not a victim.
Not anymore.
I survived identical twins who tried to destroy me.
I survived gaslighting.
I survived rape.
I survived the aftermath.
And I didn’t just survive.
I thrived.
Changed laws.
Helped others.
Built a new life.
Found real love.
Won.
The twins wanted to break me.
Make me question everything.
Destroy my sense of reality.
They failed.
I’m here.
They’re not.
I win.
END OF CHAPTER 24
Reader Reactions