structured setting,' Abigail explained. 'The victim will be able to tell the offender about the crime's physical, emotional, and financial impact. The victim also has the chance to receive answers to any lingering questions about the crime, and to be directly involved in trying to develop a plan for the offender to pay back a debt if possible- emotional or monetary. In return, the offender gets the opportunity to take responsibility for his behavior and actions. Everyone with me so far?'

I started to wonder why this wasn't used for every crime committed.

Granted, it was labor-intensive for both the AG's office and the prison, but wasn't it better to come face-to-face with the opposing party, instead of having the legal system be the intermediary?

'Now, the process is strictly voluntary. That means if June wants to leave at any time, she should feel free to do so. But,' Abigail added, 'I also want to point out that this meeting was initiated by Shay, which is a very good first step.'

She glanced at me, at Maggie, and then at June, and finally Shay.

'Right now. Shay,' Abigail said, 'you need to listen to June.'

June

They say you get over your grief, but you don't really, not ever. It's been eleven years, and it hurts just as much as it did that first day.

Seeing his face-sliced into segments by those metal bars, like he was some kind of Picasso portrait that couldn't be put together again-brought it all back. That face, his fucking face, was the last one Kurt and Elizabeth saw.

When it first happened, I used to make bargains with myself.

I'd say that I could handle their deaths, as long as-and here I'd fill in the blank. As long as they had been quick and painless. As long as Elizabeth had died in Kurt's arms. I'd be driving, and I'd tell myself that if the light turned green before I reached the intersection, surely these details were true. I did not admit that sometimes

I slowed down to stack the odds.

The only reason I was able to drag myself out of bed at all those first few months was because there was someone more needy than I was. As a newborn, Claire didn't have a choice. She had to be fed and diapered and held. She kept me so grounded in the present that I had to let go of my hold on the past. I credit her with saving my life. Maybe that's why I am so determined to reciprocate.

But even having Claire to care for was not foolproof. The smallest things would send me into a downward spiral: while pressing seven birthday candles into her cake, I'd think of Elizabeth, who would have been fourteen. I'd open a box in the garage and breathe in the scent of the miniature cigars Kurt liked to smoke every now and then. I'd open up a pot of Vaseline and see

Elizabeth's tiny fingerprint, preserved on the surface. I would pull a book off a shelf and a shopping list would flutter out of it, in

Kurt's handwriting: thumbtacks, milk, rock salt.

What I would like to tell Shay Bourne about the impact this crime had on my family is that it erased my family, period. What I would like to do is bring him back to the moment Claire, four, perched on the stairs to stare at a picture of Elizabeth and asked where the girl who looked like her lived. I would like him to know what it feels like to have to run your hand up the terrain of your own body, and underneath your nightshirt, only to realize that you cannot surprise yourself with your own touch.

I would like to show him the spot in the room he built, Claire's old nursery, where there is a bloodstain on the floorboards that I cannot scrub clean. I'd like to tell him that even though I carpeted the room years ago and turned it into a guest bedroom, I still do not walk across it, but instead tiptoe around the perimeter when I have to go inside.

I would like to show him the bills that came from the hospital every time Claire was sent there, which quickly consumed the money we received from the insurance company after Kurt died.

I'd like him to come with me to the bank, the day I broke down in front of the teller and told her that I wanted to liquidate the college fund of Elizabeth Nealon.

I would like to feel that moment when Elizabeth was sitting in my lap and I was reading to her, and she went boneless and soft, asleep in my arms. I would like to hear Kurt call me Red again, for my hair, and tangle his fingers in it as we watch television in the bedroom at night. I would like to pick up the dirty socks that Elizabeth strewed about the house, a tiny tornado, the same reason I once yelled at her. I would love to fight with Kurt over the size of

If they had to die, I would have loved to have known in advance, so that I could take each second spent with them and know to hold on to it, instead of assuming there would be a million more. If they had to die, I would have loved to have been there, to be the last face they saw, instead of his.

I would like to tell Shay Bourne to go to hell, because wherever he winds up after he dies, it had better not be anywhere close to my daughter and my husband.

M IC HAEL

'Why?' June Nealon asked. Her voice was striped with rust and sorrow, and in her lap, her hands twisted. 'Why did you do it?' She lifted her gaze, staring at Shay. 'I let you into my home. I gave you a job. I trusted you. And you, you took everything I had.'

Shay's mouth was working silently. He moved from side to side in his little booth, hitting his forehead sometimes. His eyes fluttered, as if he was trying hard to organize what he had to say. 'I can fix it,' he said finally.

'You can't fix anything,' she said tightly.

'Your other little girl-'

June stiffened. 'Don't you talk about her. Don't you even breathe her name. Just tell me. I've waited eleven years to hear it. Tell me why you did this.'

He squeezed his eyes shut; sweat had broken out on his brow. He was whispering, a litany meant to convince himself, or maybe June. I leaned forward, but the noise from the kitchen obliterated his words.

And then whatever had been sizzling was taken off the grill, and we all heard Shay, loud and clear: 'She was better off dead.'

June shot to her feet. Her face was so pale that I feared she would fall over, and I rose just in case. Then blood rushed, hot, into her cheeks. 'You bastard,' she said, and she ran outside.

Maggie tugged on my jacket. 'Go,' she mouthed.

I followed June past the two officers and through the anteroom.

She burst through the double doors and into the parking lot without even bothering to pick up her driver's license at the control booth, trad ing back her visitor's pass. I was certain she would rather go to the

DMV and pay for a replacement than set foot in this prison again.

'June,' I yelled. 'Please. Wait.'

I finally cornered her at her car, an old Ford Taurus with duct tape around the rear bumper. She was sobbing so hard that she couldn't get the key into the lock.

'Let me.' I opened the door and held it for her so that she could sit down, but she didn't. 'June, I'm sorry-'

'How could he say that? She was a little girl. A beautiful, smart, perfect little girl.'

I gathered her into my arms and let her cry on my shoulder. Later, she would regret doing this; later, she would feel that I had manipulated the situation. But for right now, I held her until she could catch her breath.

Redemption had very little to do with the big picture, and far more to do with the particulars. Jesus might forgive Shay, but what good was that if Shay didn't forgive himself? It was that impetus that drove him to give up his heart, just as I was driven to help him do it because it would cancel out my vote to execute him in the first place. We couldn't erase our mistakes, so we did the next best thing and tried to do something that distracted attention from them.

'I wish I could have met your daughter,' I said softly.

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