Prologue for All That Remains
They told me confession brings peace. That by unburdening yourself, you make room for forgiveness, maybe even redemption. But I’ve learned there’s no peace in remembering. There’s only the slow ache of clarity, the sting that comes when you stop lying to yourself long enough to see what really happened. Every story they printed about me began the same way—Successful executive. Beautiful assistant. Murder. They always leave out the parts that matter. The quiet hours. The choices that didn’t look like choices at the time. The way one moment—so harmless you barely feel it pass—can tilt your entire life off its axis. When Dr. Freeman first walked into that gray room, she said she wanted the truth. The whole truth. But truth is a shifting thing; it changes depending on where you stand. Hers looks like justice. Mine looks like love. So I start at the beginning. Not with blood on the floor. But with sunlight on her hair. And the sound of my own name, spoken by someone who didn’t yet know what true freedom would cost.
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