Johnny and Betsy’s defense attorneys put up a vigorous fight. They said it was self-defense, that Johnny thought his life was threatened, Betsy thought his life was threatened, the physical altercation between Johnny and Peter was enough proof, the past abuse another indicator of Johnny’s well-founded fear of imminent death. But as there was no weapon pointed at Johnny and Betsy at the time that Peter was killed, no gun on the floor, no bullets, no gunpowder, no police reports of past abuse, no police reports of a murdered mother, it did not hold up well.

Alfred said, again, in closing, that Betsy and Johnny were after his father’s money. He said Johnny had been traumatized by his mother’s disappearance when she left to be with her lover, that he had tried to falsely blame his father for killing her so he could get away with murder in this very courtroom.

“He’s lying to save himself, save Betsy. He’s making up stories. He’s trying to confuse you. He doesn’t realize how smart you are, jury members, that you’ll see through this evil charade.” Alfred pointed at Johnny and Betsy once again. It would make him click his heels together if that photo were on the front cover of the paper tomorrow! He was having a superb hair day, too. “Don’t be fools!”

Betsy was painted as the manipulative, sly, sneaky young woman who tried to make it look like self-defense when it clearly wasn’t. Betsy’s premonitions made everything worse. The jury believed her to be delusional, or a liar, or a delusional liar. No one could see the future. Ridiculous. What a pathetic excuse. Plus, they believed that it was Betsy who held the knife.

The only witness?

Tilly Kandinsky. Johnny’s little sister. But she was only seven when it happened, and she was still not speaking. She was in foster care. She was traumatized. She was now an orphan.

The jury was out for five days.

In the end, they voted to convict Betsy and Johnny of first-degree murder.

When Betsy and Johnny were pulled out of the courtroom after the jury verdict, he shouted at her, “I love you, Betsy,” and she said back, in a whisper, which is all she could say through her constricted throat. “I love you, too.”

* * *

They were both moved from jail and transported to prison. Their nightmares began anew.

* * *

The first night in her new prison cell, battling fear and grief, listening to bars clanging, a woman wailing, and a guard yelling, Betsy had the same premonition that had plagued her her whole life.

She was on the same road. It was tight, narrow, curving. The sun behind her was slanting through the fir trees. The mountain was on the left, cliff on the right. Orange poppies were scattered here and there, like a floral blanket.