62.At sixty-four, I knew the difference between an accident and somebody trying to hurt you.

On December twentieth, five days before Christmas, Grant Voss gave up.

He didn't go to trial. His public defender took one look at the security camera footage of Grant holding a jerrycan outside Bay 3, paired with the sworn confession from Chloe Higgins the notary, and told Grant that if he stepped in front of a jury in Portage County, he would leave the courtroom in a state corrections bus bound for the Mansfield Penitentiary for a decade.

The plea hearing was held in Courtroom 2B of the Portage County Common Pleas Court, with Judge Harold R. Vance presiding.

The courtroom was quiet.

Arden, Carys, Mack, and I sat in the second row behind the prosecution's table. On the other side of the aisle, the Voss family bench was completely empty. Wallace was on house arrest in Columbus with an electronic ankle monitor, and Laurel had refused to make the drive from Canton, claiming in a text message to Grant’s attorney that the stress was ‘too damaging to her health.’

Grant was led in through the heavy side door wearing an orange county-issue jumpsuit, his wrists shackled to a chain around his waist.

He looked hollow. His designer haircut had grown out shaggy and unwashed, his posture was hunched, and he kept his eyes glued to the scuffed linoleum floor. The arrogance that had once filled every room he entered had been completely stripped away, leaving only a frightened, broken boy who had finally realized that the world doesn't belong to charlatans.

His public defender, a tired-looking woman with gray hair named Sarah Jenkins, rose to speak.

“Your Honor, my client wishes to withdraw his previous plea of not guilty and enter a plea of guilty to Counts One and Three: Attempted Arson and Grand Theft by Deception. In exchange, the State has agreed to merge the identity fraud counts for sentencing purposes.”

Judge Vance adjusted his reading glasses, his eyes severe and unyielding over the bench.

“Mr. Voss, step forward to the microphone.”

Grant shuffled forward, the chains around his ankles clinking with every step.

“Mr. Voss,” the judge said, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. “Do you understand that by entering this plea, you are admitting to the factual basis of these crimes? That you knowingly, deliberately, and with malice attempted to set fire to Whitcomb Auto Repair, and that you fraudulently converted assets belonging to your wife and mother-in-law for your own enrichment?”

Grant swallowed hard. His voice came out as a thin, cracked whimper.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And do you understand that this court is not bound by any sentencing recommendations made by your counsel, and that you face substantial incarceration in the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction?”

Grant glanced sideways for a split second toward our bench.

He saw Arden sitting there. She didn't look angry. She didn't look triumphant. She looked at him with the calm, detached pity one gives to a stray dog that had bitten the hand that fed it.

“I understand, Your Honor,” Grant choked out, tears finally spilling down his hollow cheeks.

“The court accepts your plea of guilty,” Judge Vance said, signing the order with a heavy scratch of his fountain pen. “Sentencing will occur on January sixteenth. The defendant is remanded to the custody of the Portage County Sheriff without bond.”

As Deputy Harris took Grant’s arm to lead him back toward the holding cells, Grant stopped and looked at Arden one last time.

“Arden... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lip trembling. “I lost my mind. Please...”

Arden stood up slowly. She looked at the man she had loved for six years, the man who had traded her trust for golf clubs and his father’s approval.

“I’m sorry too, Grant,” Arden said, her voice clear and without a trace of trembling. “I’m sorry I didn't see who you were six years ago. Have a safe winter.”