After the deputy left, Trenton and I sat in the kitchen. The same kitchen where just hours ago he’d finally found the courage to apologize.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“For Deborah? Prison probably, or a very good plea deal.”
“And for me?”
I looked at my son. He seemed smaller somehow, deflated, like someone had let all the air out of him.
“That depends on you. The prosecutor will want to talk to you. If you cooperate fully, testify against Deborah. Tell them everything you know about the forged will. They might drop any charges against you.”
“I’ll do it.”
He said it immediately without hesitation.
“I’ll tell them everything.”
Over the next five days, Carla tracked Deborah’s movements. Credit card purchases at gas stations along Interstate 70, then south through New Mexico, then west to Nevada. She was headed exactly where Trenton had predicted, to her sister’s house in Las Vegas.
On the sixth day, Carla called with news.
“Nevada State Police picked her up this morning. She was at her sister’s apartment, apparently put up quite a fight, screaming about her rights, threatening lawsuits. They’re holding her pending extradition to Colorado.”
I hung up and allowed myself a small smile.
The net was closing.
While we waited for extradition proceedings, I focused on tying up loose ends. Marcus helped me finalize the new will and established the Winston Young Restorators Fund. Nathan Price notorized everything. The charitable foundation would receive 90% of my estate upon my death, while the remaining 10% would go into a trust for Trenton, accessible only after he completed a financial literacy course and maintained stable employment for five consecutive years.
“Are you sure about the conditions?” Marcus asked as I signed the paperwork.
“Absolutely. My son needs to learn that money is earned, not given. If he wants his inheritance, he’ll have to prove he can handle it.”
The extradition process took two weeks. Colorado filed the formal request. Nevada processed the paperwork, and eventually a pair of deputies flew to Las Vegas to escort Deborah back to Pittkin County.
I wasn’t there when they brought her in, but Carla was, and she described the scene in vivid detail.
“She looked terrible,” Carla said. “Hair a mess, no makeup, wearing the same clothes she’d been arrested in. When they walked her into the courthouse, she kept looking around like she expected someone to rescue her. No one did.”
The preliminary hearing was scheduled for the following week. But before that could happen, there was one more piece of business to conclude.
Trenton had to leave.
He’d been staying in the guest room since Deborah’s disappearance. A ghost haunting my hallways. We barely spoke except when necessary. The tension was exhausting for both of us.
The morning of his departure, I found him in the kitchen drinking coffee and staring out the window at the mountains.
“The car’s packed,” he said without turning around.
“Where will you go?”
“Back to Aurora. The apartment’s still there, barely. I talked to the landlord, worked out a payment plan for the back rent.”
He finally looked at me.
“I’m going to start over, Dad. Get my life together. Pay off the debts. Find a real job.”
“Good.”
He stood there awkward, uncertain.
“Is there Is there any chance for us? I mean, for our relationship.”
I considered the question carefully. This was my son, the boy who used to run to greet me, who dreamed of cooking in my kitchen, but also the man who had conspired with his wife to steal my property, to have me declared incompetent, to take everything I’d built.
“The door isn’t closed, Trenton,” I told you that. “But you need to earn your way back. Start with fixing your own life. the debts, the job, the self-respect. Come back to me in a year as a different person and we’ll talk.”
He nodded slowly.
“A year?”
“One year? Prove to me you’ve changed.”
He walked to the door, then stopped.
“Dad,”
“yes.”
“Thank you for not giving up on me completely.”
I watched him drive away, his rental car disappearing down the mountain road. Then I went inside and poured myself another cup of coffee.
3 days later, Deborah was formally arraigned in Pittkin County Court. The charges: forgery, fraud upon the court, and attempted exploitation of an atrisisk adult. She pleaded not guilty, but her courtappointed attorney. She could no longer afford Randall Morgan’s services, and he wanted nothing to do with her anyway. Looked distinctly uncomfortable.
The judge set bail at $50,000.
Deborah couldn’t pay it. She would remain in custody until the trial.
The trial began on a crisp autumn morning, the mountains blazing with color outside the courthouse windows. I sat in the front row of the gallery, Marcus Reynolds, beside me.
Across the aisle, Deborah sat at the defense table, looking nothing like the polished, confident woman who had pushed her way into my cabin months ago. Her hair was limp, her face pale and drawn, her expensive clothes replaced by a plain gray suit that hung loosely on her frame.
The prosecution called its witnesses one by one.
First came Jennifer Marsh, Deborah’s former colleague from the real estate office. She described in devastating detail how Deborah had bragged about manipulating Eleanor Vance, the elderly woman she’d tried to cheat six years ago. She called her an easy mark. Jennifer testified said old people were the best targets because they trusted too easily.