The laptop screen cast a harsh, ghostly blue glow across the quiet hospital room where my seventy-eight-year-old mother slept under the influence of pain medication.

The trial itself didn't last long. Faced with the overwhelming mountain of encrypted video evidence, seventy-four separate witness testimonies from delivery drivers and neighbors who had witnessed Allison’s erratic behavior, and Marcus Sterling’s complete cooperation with federal prosecutors, Richard Vance advised his client to change her plea.

On a rainy Tuesday morning in May, Allison Carlson formally pleaded guilty to felony aggravated elder abuse, unlawful confinement, extortion, and conspiracy to commit financial fraud.

Because of the plea agreement, the federal and state prosecutors recommended a consolidated sentence of twelve years in a maximum-security state correctional facility in central Illinois, with no possibility of parole for the first eight years.

I didn't attend the final sentencing hearing. I stayed home in Oakridge, sitting on the back patio with a cup of coffee while watching my mother sit in her new motorized wheelchair, basking in the spring sunlight as she fed breadcrumbs to the sparrows hopping across the lawn.

Marcus Webb called me on my cell phone while I was sitting out there.

“It’s done, Ryder,” Marcus said over the line, the sound of court reporters packing up echoing in the background. “Judge handed down the full twelve-year sentence. No reduction. She’s being transferred to Dwight Correctional Facility this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Marcus,” I said quietly. “For everything.”

“Take care of your mom, Ryder. You both earned some peace.”

I hung up the phone, slipping it into my pocket. I looked over at Mom. She turned her head, catching my eye, and flashed a soft, beautiful smile—the kind of smile I hadn't seen since I was a boy growing up in our old house before life grew complicated and cold.

“Who was on the phone, sweetheart?” Mom asked, her voice steady and clear.

“Just business, Mom,” I replied, walking over to stand behind her wheelchair and placing my hands gently on the rubber grips. “Just tying up some loose ends.”