Cass stood when instructed. Beige again, like she’d decided color was too risky. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles pale. She looked at the judge, then at me, then down.
Her lawyer spoke about her “potential.” Her “mistakes.” Her “difficult upbringing,” which almost made me laugh out loud because we had the same upbringing and only one of us committed mortgage fraud.
The prosecutor spoke about the facts. The deliberate nature of the crime. The amount. The impact.
Then Cass was allowed to speak.
She swallowed hard. “I know I did wrong,” she said, voice shaking. “I just… I didn’t think it would ruin everything. I thought I could fix it before anyone found out.”
There it was again.
Not I’m sorry I hurt you.
Just I’m sorry consequences exist.
Cass glanced at me. Her eyes were wet, but I couldn’t tell if it was regret or fear.
“I love my sister,” she added quickly, like the word love should act as a shield. “I never wanted her to get hurt.”
I stayed still. Love without respect is just another kind of theft.