Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~6 min read
Chapter 26: Ten Years Later
SLOANE
Ten years since the trial.
Forty years old today.
I wake up to Owen bringing me breakfast in bed.
“Happy birthday, love.”
“Thank you.”
We’ve been married for five years.
Together for ten.
Still going strong.
Life is unrecognizable from a decade ago.
I’m the CEO of my architecture firm now.
Bought it two years ago when the founder retired.
Running the whole company.
Remote from Oregon.
Successful beyond my wildest dreams.
Owen’s music studio expanded.
Three locations now.
Portland. Seattle. San Francisco.
He’s semi-retired.
Lets younger producers handle most sessions.
We have time now.
For us.
For life.
We bought a bigger house last year.
Still on the coast.
But more land.
Space for guests.
For River (who’s now ten and gray around the muzzle).
For River’s successor, Storm (a rescue we got two years ago).
For life.
Jade visits quarterly now.
She got married five years ago.
To a woman named Sarah.
They have twins.
(Life’s ironic like that.)
But good twins.
Sweet girls named Emma and Lily.
I’m their aunt.
Spoil them rotten.
Heath married his therapist girlfriend.
They have two kids.
Live in Seattle now.
Close enough to visit often.
Far enough to have their own lives.
My parents both passed.
Dad four years ago.
Mom two years ago.
I miss them.
But I’m grateful they saw me happy.
Saw me thriving.
Knew I survived.
I stopped public speaking three years ago.
Did my last conference.
Told my story one final time.
Then retired from advocacy.
“I’ve said all I need to say,” I told Dr. Morgan. “Time to just… live.”
“That’s healthy. You’ve done more than enough.”
The Mitchell Act is still helping people.
Over two hundred convictions now.
Adopted by fifteen states.
My legacy.
But not my identity.
Not anymore.
I haven’t thought about the twins in years.
Genuinely.
Not obsessively.
Not even occasionally.
Just… not at all.
They’re ghosts.
Footnotes.
Nothing.
Until today.
My fortieth birthday.
When Rebecca calls.
“Sloane. I have news.”
“Good or bad?”
“Ethan died.”
I go completely still.
“What?”
“Car accident. Three days ago. He was in Boston. Crossing the street. Hit by a drunk driver. Dead instantly.”
“Oh.”
“Just… oh?”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“His lawyer contacted me. He left you a letter. In his will. Asked that it be delivered if he died.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I understand. But he was clear. It’s important. His last words.”
“Fine. Mail it.”
I tell Owen.
“Ethan’s dead.”
“How do you feel?”
“Nothing. Is that bad?”
“No. It’s honest.”
“I should feel something. Sadness. Relief. Anger. Something.”
“Maybe you processed him already. Mourned what could have been. Moved on.”
“Maybe.”
The letter arrives two days later.
I stare at it for an hour.
Finally open it.
*”Sloane,*
*If you’re reading this, I’m dead. I don’t know how or when. But I’m gone.*
*I wanted my last words to be to you. To say what I never said properly: I’m sorry.*
*Not performatively. Not for show. Not to make myself feel better.*
*But genuinely. I’m sorry for the pain I caused. For the cowardice I showed. For choosing him over you. Every time.*
*I never forgave myself. Spent the last ten years trying. Therapy. Meditation. Service. Nothing worked. The guilt stayed.*
*I hope you found peace. I hope you’re happy. I hope you forgot I existed.*
*You deserved better than me. Than him. Than all of it.*
*I’m glad I met you. Even though I destroyed us. You made me want to be better. I just… wasn’t strong enough.*
*Goodbye, Sloane.*
*Ethan”*
I read it three times.
Feel… nothing.
Then burn it.
Watch it turn to ash.
“Goodbye, Ethan,” I whisper.
And mean it.
He’s gone.
Really gone.
Not locked up.
Not out there somewhere.
Just… gone.
Two weeks later, Rebecca calls again.
“Everett found out about Ethan’s death.”
“And?”
“Attempted suicide. In prison. They stopped him. He’s in medical observation.”
“Good that they stopped him?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
I think about it.
“I guess. Everyone deserves a chance to change. Even him.”
“You really believe that?”
“I believe in the possibility. Not the probability.”
Everett writes me.
First contact in ten years.
The prison forwards it to Rebecca.
She calls.
“He wants to apologize. In person. Says Ethan’s death made him realize he wasted his life.”
“I don’t want to see him.”
“I figured. I’ll tell them no.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Maybe I do want to see him. One last time. To end it. Fully.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I’m doing it anyway.”
Owen’s against it.
“Why give him the satisfaction?”
“It’s not for him. It’s for me. To prove to myself he has no power over me anymore.”
“What if it triggers you?”
“Then I’ll handle it. I’ve handled worse.”
Three weeks later, I’m back in California.
Back at the prison.
Back to face the twin who destroyed my life.
He’s brought in.
Orange jumpsuit. Handcuffed. Aged.
Gray hair. Lines around his eyes. Thinner.
He looks… human.
Broken, even.
Not the monster I remembered.
Just a man.
A pathetic, sad, aging man.
He sits.
Doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’m not here for you. I’m here for me.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“Ethan’s dead,” he finally says.
“I heard.”
“He was my twin. My other half. And now he’s gone.”
“You killed him. Slowly. By being who you are.”
“I know.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me? That your twin died?”
“No. I wanted to say… I’m sorry.”
I laugh.
Actually laugh.
“You’re sorry? After ten years? After ruining my life? After raping me? You’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I’ll never forgive you.”
“I know.”
“So why am I here?”
“Because I needed to see you. One last time. To tell you: you won.”
I blink.
“What?”
“You won. I spent ten years trying to break you. And I failed. You’re out there. Living. Thriving. And I’m in here. Dying slowly. You won.”
I stand.
“You’re right. I did win. Not because you’re in prison. But because I chose to survive. To heal. To move forward. You’re irrelevant. A bad memory. Nothing more.”
“I know.”
“Good. Now I can leave knowing you know it too.”
I walk to the door.
Stop.
Turn back.
“For what it’s worth… I hope you find peace. Whatever that looks like for you. Because hating you takes energy I’d rather spend elsewhere.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me.”
I leave.
Don’t look back.
Outside, Owen’s waiting.
“How was it?”
“Closure.”
“Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
We fly home that night.
Back to Oregon.
Back to our life.
Back to peace.
I never think about Everett again.
Don’t Google him.
Don’t ask about his parole hearings.
Don’t care.
He’s dead to me.
And that’s enough.
END OF CHAPTER 26
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