My stepmother called me worthless as she walked away—but before she reached the station exit, police sirens were racing toward the woman the entire internet had just watched commit a crime.

The visitor’s room at the Rose M. Singer Center on Rikers Island was a stark, miserable expanse of gray Formica tables and reinforced glass dividers. The air smelled of industrial bleach and old floor wax, a combination that made my stomach turn the moment the heavy iron gate slammed shut behind me.

I sat at Table 4, my arms free of the braces now, though my movements were still stiff, my shoulders sitting with an unnatural, rigid straightness. Arthur Pendelton sat beside me, a recording device already humming on the table between us.

The heavy steel door at the back of the room opened, and Vanessa Reed was led in by a female correction officer.

The transition from Manhattan socialite to inmate had not been kind to her. Her hair, usually blown out into a perfect, honey-blonde bob, was dry, frizzy, and pinned back with cheap plastic clips. She wore an oversized orange jumpsuit that made her look small and withered, her hands locked in a plastic waist-chain assembly that clanked loudly with every step.

She sat down opposite me, her eyes drilling into mine with a feral, concentrated hatred that would have made me run six months ago. Today, I didn't even blink.

"You look terrible, Emily," she said, her voice raspy from weeks of jailhouse shouting. "You always did look like a charity case. Even in that expensive wool coat Arthur probably bought you."

"We aren't here to discuss fashion, Vanessa," Arthur Pendelton said, tapping the recording device. "This is a formal deposition regarding the civil restitution suit filed by the Carter Estate. We are offering a final stipulation before the criminal trial begins next month."

"A stipulation?" Vanessa laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "You think you’ve won because some hacker leaked a video of me dealing with my senile mother? My lawyers are going to have that video thrown out as an illegal wiretap before the selection of the jury even starts."

"The video didn't come from a hacker, Vanessa," I said quietly, leaning forward until my face was inches from the glass. "It came from your mother's medical power of attorney. Which she transferred to me three days before you assaulted her."

Vanessa’s laughter stopped instantly, her jaw going slack, her eyes darting toward the correction officer behind her as if looking for an escape. "What? You're lying. That old woman doesn't even know what day it is."

"She knew enough to realize you were stealing her pension," I said. "Margaret called the billing office at my hospital six months ago because she saw a discrepancy in her Medicare statements. She didn't know who I was—she just saw the name Carter on the administrative directory and remembered my dad. We started talking. She told me how you were forcing her to sign over her annuity checks. I helped her install the nanny cam in her living room to protect her from the nursing home staff. We didn't expect you to show up that morning and try to kill her for a password."

Vanessa’s face went from pale to a deep, dark purple, the veins in her neck bulging against the collar of her jumpsuit. She lunged forward, her waist-chain snapping tight with a violent crack against the Formica table.

"You little gutter rat!" she screamed, her spit hitting the glass divider. "I spent seven years cleaning up after your pathetic father! I deserved that house! I deserved every dollar in those accounts! You were nothing but a burden he left behind, and I should have pushed you onto those tracks when I had the chance!"

The correction officer instantly stepped forward, grabbing Vanessa by the shoulder and forcing her back into her chair with a practiced, heavy hand. "Keep your seat, inmate! One more outburst and this session is over."

Arthur Pendelton didn't even look up from his legal pads. He merely turned the page, his pen scratching smoothly against the paper. "Thank you for that statement, Mrs. Reed. It matches the malicious intent criteria required for our punitive damages claim perfectly."

He pushed a single document across the slot at the bottom of the divider.

"This is the full surrender of all claims to the Cobble Hill property, the upstate acreage, and the remaining commercial accounts," Arthur said. "Sign it, and the estate will agree not to pursue a separate civil judgment against your personal jewelry collection and the Soho apartment your brother registered under his name. Refuse, and we will take those too before the criminal court sentences you to twenty years for attempted murder."

Vanessa stared at the pen the officer placed in her hand. Her fingers were shaking, the long, manicured nails she had been so proud of now chipped and dirty. She looked at me, looking for the terrified girl she used to kick in the dark hallway of our home.

She found nothing but the reflection of her own ruin in my eyes.