Why didn’t anyone worry about what he did at home?

After all, his employees still kept their jobs, if they wanted them. They took home paychecks and put food on the table. It was just that they had to dread each day in the factory.

In a similar way, we always had enough clothes and enough food to eat. It was just that we lived in fear of his temper. We used to look forward to the days he had to work late. It meant he couldn’t terrorize us at home. Looking back, I understand that this just meant he was terrorizing other people instead.

He spent his days berating and, in some cases, assaulting his employees. He spent his time with us following much the same pattern. Once, at dinner, I spilled some of my soup on the tablecloth. My father responded by holding my hands to the boiling pot until Joe begged him to stop. Once, my brother Joe failed a test at school. My father responded by whipping his ass with a belt until I begged him to stop.

We protected each other, me and Joe. We tried our best to protect each other. That’s not my imagination.

Which is why it’s so difficult to square my brother as he is now with the person he was back then.

How did Joe Causey go from being my protective older brother to a murderer? When did the change take place? Was it the night he shot my husband, Rhys, or was it before then? How much should past kindness weigh when balanced against present crimes?

I still don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t know if I ever will.

All these questions. I sit back in my chair and cover my eyes with my hands. It makes me cry, writing these things. I didn’t cry in the courtroom when I testified against Joe. It’s when I try to put these two versions of him side-by-side on paper that the tears well up.

I’m not even sure that the question should matter. He murdered Rhys. No amount of childhood heroism will undo that. But like I told Mateo, I still love him.

The timer goes off, interrupting the cascade of feelings.

That beep beep beep brings me back into the present moment. The trial is always hanging in the background, but this moment—this one, right now—it’s simple.

Time’s up. Time to stop excavating the past and putting it on paper.

Time to step away and tend to the life I’ve built.

I close the laptop like it’s about to boil over, shuffle my notes back into their folder, and go to take my daughter’s birthday cake out of the oven.

Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Mateo Garza