“Vincent?”
“Open Pier Nineteen.”
Silence.
“All records?”
“All.”
“Privileged files too?”
“Everything legally releasable. Stop fighting the victims. Reopen every claim.”
“Vincent—”
“And create an independent compensation fund.”
“That number could become enormous.”
“Good.”
Lucia exhaled.
“Are you sure?”
I looked at Tessa.
“Yes.”
I ended the call.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Tessa whispered, “Mara isn't going to forgive you just because you write checks.”
“I know.”
“Some things can't be fixed.”
“I know.”
“You may do everything right from now on and she may still hate your name.”
I felt something like peace.
“Then she'll be entitled to.”
Tessa cried again.
This time I reached for her.
She let me hold her hand.
Six weeks later, Mara agreed to meet me.
Not at my house.
Not at the office.
At the rehabilitation hospital where she still attended treatment twice a week.
I arrived using forearm crutches and braces.
