Chapter 6 - Returning Home
On New Year's Day, we finally brought Lucy home from the hospital. Her feet were still wrapped in specialized bandages, requiring crutches to move around, but her spirit was unbroken. As we walked through the front door, the lingering smell of cinnamon and pine from Christmas morning was gone, replaced by the fresh scent of lemon cleaner and open windows.
Mark had spent the last forty-eight hours throwing away every single item, gift, and photograph associated with his father. The living room looked sparse, almost alien, but the oppressive weight that had hung over the house for years was finally lifting.
"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" I asked Lucy as I helped her settle onto the living room sofa with a pile of soft pillows.
"Can we order pizza?" Lucy asked, looking up at me with a small, cautious smile. "No cookies. Just pizza."
"Pizza it is," Mark said, walking into the living room with a blanket. He knelt down beside the sofa, gently draping the blanket over her legs. "I’m sorry, Luce. For everything."
Lucy looked at her father, studying his face for a long moment before giving a small nod. "It’s not your fault, Dad. Grandpa was just... really weird."
"He’s never coming back here, I promise you," Mark said, his voice thick with emotion. "Never again."
That evening, while Lucy was asleep upstairs, Mark and I sat at the kitchen island with cups of tea. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of winter wind against the windows.
"The prosecutor called this afternoon," Mark said, staring into his teacup. "Arthur’s lawyers tried to file for a psychiatric evaluation, claiming he’s unfit to stand trial due to cognitive decline."
"And?" I asked, tensing slightly.
"The judge rejected it. The forensic psychologist reviewed his journals and determined he was entirely lucid, calculating, and fully aware of his actions. He’s going to trial, Elena. There’s no plea deal on the table."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Good. He belongs in a cell."
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Mark reached across the counter, taking my hand in his. His grip was firm, steady, and entirely free of hesitation. "I want to sell this house, Elena. Or at least remodel every inch of it. I don't want a single memory of him left in our lives."
"We'll do it," I agreed, squeezing his hand back. "We start fresh."
