“You always ruin everything.” Those were my father's last words before he closed the curtains and left me lying twenty feet below his shattered second-floor window.

The federal courthouse in downtown Fairbanks was packed to capacity for Alaric Carver’s arraignment and plea hearing in early February.

Reporters, former employees of Carver Logistics, and curious onlookers filled every wooden bench in the gallery. Cameras flashed continuously outside the double doors as high-profile defense attorneys and federal prosecutors maneuvered through the media circus.

I arrived with Detective Vance and Rosalind.

I wasn't in a wheelchair anymore. I sat upright in a specialized mobility-assisted transport chair, but I was dressed in a sharp, tailored black blazer, my hair pulled back into a clean ponytail, my head held high.

When the bailiff announced, “All rise for the Honorable Judge Marcus Sterling,” the entire courtroom stood.

Alaric Carver was led into the courtroom through the secure side door.

He wore a standard orange jumpsuit over a white thermal undershirt. His silver hair was uncombed, his shoulders were slumped forward, and the expensive tailored suits that had once defined his identity were a distant memory. He looked older, smaller, and utterly defeated.

As he walked toward the defense table, his eyes swept across the gallery.

They locked onto mine.

For three seconds, time seemed to stop. I looked at the man who had given me life, the man who had raised me in cold conditional luxury, and the man who had tried to murder me in the snow.

There was no fear left inside me. No anger, either. Just an overwhelming emptiness, as if I were looking at a stranger across a very wide chasm.

Alaric quickly looked away, dropping his gaze to the polished mahogany table as his court-appointed public defender placed a hand on his shoulder.

Judge Sterling adjusted his glasses and looked down from the bench.

“We are here today in the matter of United States v. Alaric Carver,” the judge announced, his voice echoing off the high courtroom ceiling. “Mr. Carver, I understand from your counsel that you wish to change your previous plea of not guilty to a plea of guilty on all counts of wire fraud, bank fraud, and falsification of corporate records.”

Alaric slowly stood up, gripping the edge of the podium with trembling hands.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Alaric rasped, his voice lacking all of its former booming authority.

“Mr. Carver, do you understand that by entering this plea, you are waiving your right to a trial, and that you face a mandatory sentence ranging from fifteen to twenty-five years in a federal correctional facility?”

Alaric swallowed hard, glancing back toward the gallery one last time before looking up at the judge.

“I understand, Your Honor.”

“Very well. The court accepts your plea of guilty,” Judge Sterling said, his expression grim. “Sentencing will take place in sixty days. Until then, the defendant will be remanded to federal custody without bond.”

The gavel came down with a sharp, echoing crack.

BANG.

“Court is adjourned.”

As the bailiffs led Alaric away through the secure exit, he didn't look back again. He shuffled out of the courtroom, his head bowed, swallowed by the gray concrete walls of the justice system he had spent decades trying to manipulate.

Detective Vance leaned down, resting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s over, Fallon. At least the financial side of it. We still have the state attempted murder charges pending trial next month, but with Alaric pleading guilty to federal fraud, his credibility is completely destroyed.”

“He’s going away for the rest of his active life,” I murmured, watching the empty doorway. “That’s enough.”