Chapter 22 - Vincent Without a Script
The meeting took place through glass.
No physical contact.
No private room.
No opportunity for performance without witnesses.
Vincent wore county-issued clothing.
For thirteen years, Nia had rarely seen him without an expensive watch.
The absence looked strange.
He sat down.
She remained standing for several seconds before taking the chair opposite him.
Vincent picked up the phone.
Nia did the same.
“Hi.”
She almost laughed.
“Hi?”
His expression tightened.
“I don’t know how to begin.”
“That would be new.”
He looked down.
“Nia.”
“Don’t use my name like we’re having a difficult marriage conversation.”
His jaw tightened.
For a second she saw the old irritation.
Then it disappeared.
“I never wanted your father to die.”
Nia stared.
“You put him in a coffin.”
“He stopped responding.”
“No.”
“Nia—”
“There’s video.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“You disabled the camera.”
“Yes.”
“You forged a death certificate.”
“I didn’t complete it.”
“You forged Dad’s signature.”
Silence.
“You forged mine.”
Silence.
“You invented a psychiatric history.”
“I was desperate.”
Nia leaned closer to the glass.
“That is not an answer.”
Vincent looked at her.
“North Harbor was collapsing.”
“I know.”
“I thought I could fix it.”
“With Dad’s money.”
“With money that would eventually be yours.”
Nia felt something inside her settle.
There it was.
Entitlement.
Not love.
Not panic.
Not even greed alone.
A belief that future access meant present ownership.
“You thought my inheritance was yours.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I thought we were a family.”
She almost smiled.
“My father was family when you needed his money. He wasn’t family when you put him in a coffin.”
Vincent’s face tightened.
“I lost control.”
“You planned the funeral seven months earlier.”
He looked away.
“Nia—”
“Why did you ask me here?”
Vincent remained silent.
Then said, “Because I loved you.”
Past tense.
Maybe accidental.
Maybe not.
Nia waited.
“I did.”
“Did?”
“I still do.”
“What does that mean to you?”
He looked confused.
That answer told her more than anything else.
Nia continued.
“You photographed my therapy appointments.”
“I was protecting myself.”
“From what?”
“Your father.”
“My therapy was about my mother.”
“He could use anything against me.”
“So you collected it first.”
Vincent rubbed his forehead.
“Edward hated me from the beginning.”
“He distrusted you.”
“He controlled you.”
“Yes.”
Vincent looked surprised.
Nia continued.
“He did. He made mistakes. He hid things. He manipulated situations because he thought he knew best.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“Exactly.”
“But he didn’t put me in a coffin.”
Vincent went still.
“He didn’t manufacture evidence that I was incompetent.”
Silence.
“He didn’t promise my future money to creditors.”
Silence.
“You built our marriage around the idea that his flaws made you safe.”
Vincent looked at her.
“And I believed you.”
His expression cracked.
For one second she saw something like shame.
Then he whispered, “I did love you.”
Nia believed him.
That was the hardest part.
People wanted evil to erase love.
It did not always.
Sometimes love existed beside entitlement.
Beside deceit.
Beside cruelty.
That did not rescue it.
It only made the damage harder to understand.
“Maybe you did,” Nia said.
Vincent’s eyes filled.
“But your love required me to believe your version of reality.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him calmly.
“And when reality threatened you, you forged a new one.”
Vincent stared through the glass.
Nia felt no triumph.
Only distance.
He whispered, “What happens now?”
“You tell the truth.”
“Will you come to sentencing?”
“Yes.”
“Will Edward?”
“If he chooses.”
Vincent looked afraid.
Not of prison.
Of Edward seeing him.
Nia noticed.
“You’re more afraid of him than me.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Your father always looked at me like he knew.”
“He didn’t.”
Vincent frowned.
“He suspected.”
“That’s different.”
Nia stood.
He pressed the phone closer.
“Nia, wait.”
She stopped.
“Was any of it good?”
The question nearly broke her.
Their wedding.
Trips.
Sunday mornings.
Arguments.
Laughter.
His hand at her back during her grief.
Christmases with Edward.
A thousand ordinary moments.
Nia answered carefully.
“Yes.”
Vincent closed his eyes.
“But good memories are not evidence of innocence.”
She hung up.
The meeting ended.
Three days later, Vincent entered a guilty plea to a negotiated package encompassing the violent confinement of Edward, the attempt to cause his death, financial fraud, forgery, and related offenses. The court would determine sentence after reviewing victim-impact statements and the full record.
Graham Vale also pleaded guilty to financial crimes and offenses related to his participation in the conspiracy.
Caroline chose trial.
Her attorneys argued she had encouraged financial fraud and revenge but never intended Edward’s death.
The texts would decide much of that fight.
Nia did not attend every hearing.
She had stopped organizing her life around other people’s lies.
Instead, she helped Edward return home.
The memorial room remained empty.
One afternoon, Leonard Pike arrived carrying a new draft trust.
Edward looked at Nia.
Nia looked at him.
Pike cleared his throat.
“Edward asked me to prepare alternatives.”
Nia smiled slightly.
“Alternatives?”
Edward’s device spoke.
“You choose with me.”
For once, no decision had been made before she entered the room.
The difference felt enormous.
Then Pike opened the folder.
There were two signatures required at the bottom.
Edward’s.
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And Nia’s.
Neither had been forged.
