The pilot’s voice came over the PA system. “We’re beginning our descent into JFK,” he said. “Expect some turbulence.”

Celeste did. She fastened her seat belt.

55

The Sentence

Natalie stood before the judge, a dark-haired woman of about seventy with sharp, aquiline features. Judge Wollner was tiny but imposing as she asked Nat to confirm that she understood the nature of her guilty plea, that she freely admitted to committing manslaughter, thus causing the death of Gabriel William Turnmill.

“Yes,” Nat replied, in a voice that sounded unfamiliar and faraway.

“And are you currently under the influence of any substance that would affect your ability to enter this plea?” the petite magistrate continued.

Nat responded, “I’m not.” But she felt high, disconnected from her body. It was not she who was standing in the crowded courtroom, admitting to murdering Gabe. It was another girl, a stranger, who would soon learn if the judge would accept the sentence recommendation, if she would spend the next two years behind bars for killing her lover.

“And are you entering this plea after full consultation with your attorney?”

“I am.”

“You may be seated, Ms. Murphy.”

Obediently, Nat returned to her seat next to her lawyer. Hawley gave her a slight nod of approval. Her job was done. Now, she just had to sit and wait as Hawley and the prosecutor addressed the judge, discussing their sentence recommendations in legal terms. A presentence report was submitted by the parole officer who had interviewed Natalie, a heavyset, jowly man who’d asked her about her family, her work history, her emotional well-being, her use of alcohol.

And then the judge made an announcement. “I will now invite victim-impact statements.”

Natalie’s stomach lurched. This was the moment she’d been dreading above all others. Gabe’s loved ones would stand up and vilify her for what she had done. They would articulate their horror, pain, and loss. It was their right. Natalie would have to sit there and take it, while regret and self-loathing withered her soul.

When she’d entered the courtroom, Nat had briefly scanned the spectators, spotting her parents seated together, their faces pale, expressions grim. On the opposite side of the aisle, she had clocked Celeste. Gabe’s wife was seated alone; no parents, no Violet, no friends to comfort her. But she didn’t appear tearful and distressed this time. She looked calm, aloof, determined.

It was Violet’s statement that Nat had truly feared. She was haunted by the memory of their flirtatious banter, the girl’s adoring eyes on her, that sweet, tentative kiss . . . She regretted that fledgling relationship almost as much as she did the relationship with Gabe. It had been cruel and wrong to toy with the girl’s emotions, to use her to upset Gabe. Natalie deserved whatever vitriol was aimed at her now.

But the girl’s mother would speak for her. Celeste was moving toward the microphone mounted on the podium, so calm, so composed. She would not subject her only child to this painful process. The woman had been an attorney. Her words would be carefully chosen, thoughtful, impactful. Nat didn’t look at Gabe’s wife; she kept her eyes on the table before her.