Because I had finally learned that remembering someone and being trapped by their memory were two different things.
Daniel was convicted after the evidence was reviewed, and the truth about that night became part of the official record. Ava’s original statement was formally recognized for what it had been: the testimony of a frightened sixteen-year-old who had been pressured into taking the blame.
But the courtroom was not where our story truly ended.
It ended one quiet Sunday morning when Ava and I stood in the kitchen making Chloe’s blueberry pie.
The same recipe.
The same little wooden spoon Chloe used to steal from the drawer.
Ava smiled as she mixed the filling.
“Do you think she would like it?”
I smiled back.
“She’d probably say you used too much sugar.”
Ava laughed.
And for the first time in years, hearing Chloe’s name didn’t feel like someone had opened an old wound.
