But I tell Santiago, at least on that last part, he could have done more. He could have run me over, ensuring my death and the death of our baby, but he did not. He stopped, and he drove away. I don’t think I’ll ever know if that was a conscious decision. I haven’t been allowed to talk to him. And when I bring this up to Santiago, he counters with Abel’s last-ditch effort to save himself when, while I lay in a coma, my husband was escorted to The Tribunal’s halls and accused of being the mastermind behind it all. Abel had somehow fabricated evidence to prove his statements. My father had saved Santiago. He had given up his own son to save another, a man who was always a better son to him than his own blood. And I wonder if that blow was harder than any other to my brother. Or maybe he was too far past that and had reached the point of no return. Because my father once again chose Santiago over him.

That is the thing that started this, and that will be the thing to end it.

Abel looks around the room, and I see a stubbornness in the set of his jaw. An arrogance. But when his eyes meet mine, I see fear. Not repentance. Not remorse. Fear.

He, too, has grown older in these months. His hair has grayed although it’s not gone completely white like our father’s. He’s thinner too as though his muscles have wasted away. Or maybe that is the sheath he’s been made to wear.

I look at Santiago. His eyes are locked on Abel. They’re hard.

Mercedes turns to put a hand on Santiago’s. She’s barely able to drag her gaze from my brother, but at that moment, I see how her eyes are bright, how her mouth is set in a tight line, and I see how her knuckles go white around Santiago’s hand. She has asked to be present at his execution. I am not sure what the decision was, though. I’m not sure Santiago will allow it, and even if he does, will The Tribunal?

The gavel comes down, and we all turn our attention to The Councilors who draw their hoods back from their heads. The act makes me shudder.

“Abel Moreno, you have been found guilty of the murders of…” They begin to read off names. I recognize three. Santiago’s father and brother and Dr. Chambers. But as the list grows, my mouth falls open, and I see quiet tears stream down my father’s face.

I lose track of the count and hug Santiago’s jacket closer around my shoulders. He keeps one hand on me at all times whether on my thigh or fingers intertwining with mine. I’m not sure whose are colder, mine or his.