The prosecutors asked me questions about our family growing up, what Penny had been like, and how our relationship had been. They asked what I’d made of Penny’s many health issues, and specifically of her previous “pregnancy,” which we now knew for certain—given the medical records subpoenaed by the prosecution—had never existed. I answered as truthfully as possible and when asked if I had anything else to add, I spoke from the heart, my voice shaking. I was emotional, and saying this all in public, with the cameras and the jury and the onlookers, was more unnerving than I’d expected. I’d naively thought that my many interviews with sports journalists throughout the years would have prepared me.

“I just want everyone to understand that my sister has an illness,” I said to the jury. “I don’t know if she even understands what she’s done. But my parents and I love her. We love you, Penny, we just want you to get help.”

My sister—who had alternated between crying and an icy, blank affect throughout the trial—stared pointedly, angrily away from me, lips pursed.

Even then, even in that awful moment, when I was worn down by the battle fatigue of it all, I held on to some hope that there was, if not a happy ending—such a thing is forever negated by the death of a child—some reconciliation possible. I imagined Penny in a treatment center of some kind, where she would slowly be brought to the realization of what she’d done, where she would have to process the shock, the grief, the guilt, but we’d stay by her side. It was a fantasy that brought me relief, picturing the day when this trial was over, and some kind of healing could begin. It was the best outcome I could dream up, and still, it gutted me.

The defense’s cross-examination was an entirely different experience from the prosecution’s questioning. Penny had two defense attorneys: a young, fit man with a tight haircut who looked like a recruitment poster for the Navy, and a fiftysomething woman called Sheila Gregory who was broad shouldered and had the face and disposition of a mistreated bulldog. I was a big witness, so they used the big gun on me.

“Ms. Cleary,” she said. “You’re an elite ski racer, is that correct?”

“Yes.” I’d been warned to keep my answers as short as possible when answering Sheila. She’d be on the lookout for chinks in my armor and would be ruthless once she found one. I’d already seen her bring a veteran ER doctor who’d treated Ava during a previous close call to tears on the stand.

“And how early does the career of a skier start?”

“Depends.”