Two months later

Derek

I keep a tight hold on Erin’s hand as we weave through the crowd to get to the courtroom. In this old courthouse, there was no way for the security team to get us to the courtroom without going through the mob of reporters and other people here for Bryce’s sentencing.

Reporters and fans wearing shirts with my team logo are throwing questions at me as I try to open the door to the courtroom. A couple people are blocking the door, trying to force me to interact with them.

It never ends. Interest in me seems to be at an all-time high. I said in the ESPN interview that I hoped to be back next season. I know I can and will be, but I’m the sort to underpromise and overdeliver. Since then, fans have been as rabid as the reporters.

I grab the door handle and open it a few inches, and a bailiff on the other side of the door pushes it the rest of the way open, forcing the guy who’s asked me a dozen times if I’m being traded to the Denver team to move out of the way.

Holding the door open, I put my hand on Erin’s back so she can walk inside, and I go in behind her. The courtroom is quiet, a few people scattered in the seats and the front row filled with reporters.

The judge had a random drawing to determine which reporters would be allowed in, because the small courtroom can’t fit everyone.

Erin leads the way to the third row of seats, but before she walks into the row, she pauses. I follow her line of sight and see she’s looking at Bryce. Even with his back to us, I can see he’s dropped a lot of weight in jail.

The guy’s had a rough go—I’ll give him that. His wife left him when she found out he’d been involved in the robbery plot. And his cousin Oscar tried to pin the whole thing on Bryce, claiming he was the mastermind.

Erin moves to walk up the aisle. I catch her eye and shake my head, but she just smiles. There’s no stopping the woman when she puts her mind to something, so I slide into a third-row seat, saving the end spot for her.

She walks up to the defendant’s table, where Bryce is sitting next to his public defender. He’s wearing a plain white dress shirt and dark dress pants, his head hung as he stares at the table.

Erin goes to the thigh-high wall that divides the spectators from the attorney’s tables. She stands there silently, and Bryce’s attorney notices her and nudges him.

When Bryce turns to look at her, I’m alarmed at how much he’s changed since we got out of the bunker almost three months ago. His face is thin and gaunt, with way more than three months’ worth of age added. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is thinner and whiter.

He leans over to ask his attorney’s permission to get up, and the attorney nods. Bryce pushes his chair back and stands up, walking over to Erin.

I don’t have much sympathy for Bryce, but the way his face lights up when he looks at Erin makes me waver a little. She’s wearing the blue cashmere sweater I gave her for Christmas and the diamond necklace I had made for her in the shape of a mountain.

It’s because she loves mountain climbing, I told her right after she opened it, but also to remind her that there ain’t no mountain high enough to keep us apart. Not now, not ever.

She must look like an angel to Bryce, who lost more than he bargained for when he agreed to his cousin’s scheme. When she reaches out a hand, Bryce takes it, his eyes brimming with tears.

No words are exchanged, but Erin’s quiet gesture of support for Bryce has to resonate with even the coldest bastards in here. I don’t deny I’m probably one of them.

The reporters are scrawling in their notebooks when Erin smiles at Bryce, releases his hand, and comes back to our row. When she sits down, I take her hand and squeeze it.

Forgiveness is powerful. It’s one of the many things I’ve learned from this woman who didn’t just change my heart, but my life.

The judge walks out of her chambers, and everyone in the courtroom stands.

“You may be seated,” she says.

This is the sentencing hearing, and attorneys for both sides are allowed to argue their cases. They both bring up background details discovered in the pre-sentence investigation—like Bryce being an orphan and not having a prior criminal history.

Cry me a river.

“This is a good man who made one bad decision,” Bryce’s attorney says. “He couldn’t have known his cousin would blow up Mr. Heaton’s lodge and kill two people. He takes full responsibility for what he did—but it’s not fair to blame him for the actions of another person.”

“Your honor, ask Matias Gonzales how that one bad decision affected him and his family,” the prosecutor says.

Matias isn’t here today because he’s back in school. He’s healing well, and the doctors expect him to make a full recovery. He and his whole family spent Christmas at the Morrison’s farmhouse with me, my dad, and Erin’s family. Matias gave me the wood carving he made in the bunker of all our names, and I plan to hang it in the great room of the lodge when the rebuilding is finished.

Matias wrote a victim impact statement for the prosecution, and when I read it, I had to smile because it sounded so much like him. He may as well have written the statement for the defense, because he cited Bryce’s remorse and help caring for him in the bunker.

Erin and I talked a lot about writing victim impact statements. At first, I wanted to, but after lots of long conversations, I decided she was right—we should say nothing and let the chips fall where they may. Because of his cooperation with prosecutors in Oscar’s case, Bryce was able to get a plea deal, giving him a sentencing window of probation to five years in prison.

Oscar, on the other hand, is fucked. He was charged with murder, arson, and a slew of other crimes for his role. I’m gratified that he’s being held accountable for John and Trent’s murders.

Kenna didn’t write a victim impact statement, probably because she’s unable to. She was cast at the last minute on the current season of Survivor. Erin and I can’t help watching it every week, either in her living room or the main farmhouse’s living room if her family wants to watch it with us.

“Mr. McCoy, would you like to make a statement before I sentence you?” the judge asks.

The courtroom is so quiet that I hear Bryce’s sigh. “Your honor, there’s nothing I can say to justify what I did. I have to live with it every day. And the people in that bunker…” He clears his throat. “They’re all such good people. Thank God Matias is okay now. I’m sorry. It’s not nearly enough, but…I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes. Erin’s expression is twisted in sympathy. I put my arm around her.

“I’ve weighed all the evidence and arguments,” the judge says. “I can honestly say, no case like this has ever come before this court, and I doubt any case will in the future. People’s lives were changed forever in that bunker. I think Mr. McCoy has great remorse for what he did. I must consider his intent as I sentence him, and his lack of any criminal history. I hope the time you’ve spent in jail to date has helped dissuade you from ever going there again, Mr. McCoy. This court sentences you to five years of probation. You’re free to leave after this hearing, once you’ve provided your information to the probation department.”

Bryce hangs his head, openly weeping.

“And, Mr. McCoy?” The judge gives him a pointed look. “You are not permitted to write a book about any aspect of this experience or make a movie. You are not allowed to consult on a book or a movie. Don’t even write a blog post about it, are we clear?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“This court is dismissed.” The judge raps her gavel quickly and gets up to return to her chambers.

Erin and I exchange a look.

“What are you thinking?” she asks me in a whisper.

“That he was damn lucky.”

“Yes, he was.” Her brow creases with worry. “Are you sorry we didn’t do victim impact statements?”

I smile at her. “No. Yours would’ve canceled mine out anyway. It would’ve been nice, like Matias’s.”

“Probably,” she admits.

“I love your compassion, though. Don’t ever change.”

A man with a notebook in hand stops next to our seats. “Any comment on the sentencing, guys?”

“No,” I say.

I stand and reach for Erin’s hand. We need to get out of here as fast as we can because the reporters are all going to descend. As soon as we walk through the courtroom door, the security team shields us both as we make our way to the stairs.

It won’t really be over until Oscar is sentenced, but there’s a sense of closure from knowing Bryce’s sentence. He’s broke and will have a hard time finding a job anywhere with all the news coverage that’s been happening.

Being with Erin has shown me how much I was missing before. I don’t have as much of an edge now—I’m too content to. I’m living with her at the farm for now, where we get up at sunrise and start our days with coffee and a walk around the property. Then we both help with farm chores until late morning, when my trainer comes to work me out in the main level of the barn where Erin’s apartment is. I had it converted into a full gym so I can live with Erin while I rehab.

In the afternoons, we work on Camp Caroline. It’s too cold right now to host campers, but we won’t have that problem next year because I’m having a big addition put on to the lodge, and it’ll all be heated and cooled.

For now, we go check on the progress of construction, and Erin gushes about her plans for bigger and better camping trips. She’s got boundless enthusiasm for helping survivors of abuse. And now, she has a donor with deep pockets wrapped around her little finger, so the camp can grow into whatever she wants it to be. She quit working at the farm and is devoting all her time to managing the camp now, and it suits her.

The security team takes us to the waiting SUV, and we’re about to get in when a voice calls out to us.

“Hey, Derek, Erin.”

I look over and see Bryce standing on the sidewalk. He looks about ten years younger than he did in the courtroom.

Erin and I exchange a look. I’d like to tell Bryce to fuck off, but I can tell from her face that she wants to be nice to him.

I hold in my dismay as we walk back to the sidewalk. The winter wind whips at Erin’s hair, and she brushes it away from her face.

“We’re not friends now,” I tell Bryce.

“I know that.” He’s standing straighter, looking more confident. “I just wanted to say thanks. I took a gamble that you guys wouldn’t do victim impact statements.”

I narrow my eyes. “It wasn’t about you, Bryce. You’re pathetic.”

His smile makes my spine tingle with the same awareness I feel during games when I realize I’ve been played. “That was the second biggest gamble of my life, you know,” he says.

“What are you talking about, Bryce?” Erin asks, leaning closer to me.

“The biggest gamble I ever made was that the greatest quarterback of all time wouldn’t break the consecutive games played record. I laid every penny I could get my hands on with every bookmaker I could find.”

I suddenly feel short of breath. Dizzy. What the fuck happened to the slobbering, crying piece of shit Bryce has been up to this point? Where’s the hand-wringing? The sorrow?

“What if I had been the brains behind this whole thing, and Oscar had actually been planning to tip the cops off at the six-month mark?” Bryce’s tone is so low only we can hear him, and his smile is smug. “What if I’m rich beyond belief now and planning to disappear? That would be one of the greatest crimes ever committed, wouldn’t it?”

I lunge for him, but he steps back, and a sheriff’s deputy plants himself between us.

“I told them you might try to attack me since you’re angry about the sentence,” Bryce says.

“You have to stop him,” I tell the deputy. “You can’t let him go. He was the one—”

“Mr. Heaton, he’s been sentenced,” the deputy says. “You have to let it go.”

Two other deputies lead Bryce away from us. One of my security guys tells the deputy to get his hands off me.

Erin is looking at me incredulously as Bryce departs. He turns and gives us one last smile before disappearing around a corner.