My new wife’s seven-year-old daughter burst into tears every time we were left alone together. Whenever I gently asked her what was wrong, she would only shake her head silently. My wife would just laugh it off and say, “She simply doesn’t like you.”

The jury needed only two hours.

Guilty.

Arson. Conspiracy to commit murder. Insurance fraud. Child abuse. Evidence tampering. And charges tied to earlier cases.

When Clara was sentenced to sixty-eight years in prison, she turned toward me one last time. The beauty was gone from her face. Only bitterness remained.

“I’ll find you,” she said.

I didn’t answer with anger.

I didn’t have any left for her.