Chapter 14 - Warren’s VersionWarren finally gave prosecutors a full recorded statement.
Gloria was not present.
She later read the transcript.
At first Warren blamed panic.
He said Lacey discovered confidential financial matters she could not understand.
He worried she would call Gloria, causing a trust freeze that would destroy Alder Crest.
That part was true.
Then he said:
“I needed ten minutes.”
Ten minutes.
As though temporary terror were reasonable.
The prosecutor asked:
“Why place her in a suitcase?”
Warren answered:
“She was screaming.”
“Why take the suitcase outside?”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Why place it beneath disturbed soil?”
Silence.
“I panicked.”
“Why put flowers above it?”
Another silence.
“I wanted the area to look undisturbed.”
The prosecutor paused.
“So you were thinking clearly enough to conceal the area.”
Warren said nothing.
Gloria stopped reading.
For months she had wondered whether Warren understood what he had done.
There was the answer.
Enough.
He understood enough to hide it.
The prosecutor continued.
“Did you intend for Lacey to die?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Did you understand she could be harmed?”
Warren hesitated.
“Yes.”
Gloria closed the transcript.
That admission mattered.
Not because it healed anything.
Because responsibility had finally entered his own words.
The financial portion came next.
Warren admitted submitting false invoices.
He claimed he intended to replace every dollar after Alder Crest refinancing.
Again.
Temporary.
He admitted forging Gloria’s signature on preliminary documents.
He denied intending permanent theft.
The prosecutor replied:
“Permission does not become unnecessary because you plan repayment.”
Marissa could have said the same.
Warren began crying during the interview.
Gloria felt nothing at first.
Then sadness.
Not sympathy exactly.
Sadness that someone could destroy so much while still believing his intention to fix things made him different from other thieves.
Lacey did not read the transcript.
She asked one question.
“Did he say I lied?”
“No.”
“Did he say he put me there?”
“Yes.”
Lacey became very still.
“Exactly?”
“He admitted putting you in the suitcase and hiding it.”
Lacey nodded.
Then went upstairs.
Gloria found her later sitting on the bedroom floor.
“You okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
They sat.
After several minutes Lacey said:
“I thought I wanted him to admit it.”
“And now?”
“I still do.”
“But?”
“It doesn’t make it unhappen.”
“No.”
Lacey leaned against her.
“I hate that.”
Gloria did too.
Legal truth could not reverse time.
It could only prevent denial from owning the future.
The plea negotiations accelerated.
Prosecutors would recommend a substantial prison sentence if Warren pleaded guilty to a package covering both the violence against Lacey and financial crimes.
Warren’s attorney wanted fewer years.
Victim-impact statements became relevant.
Gloria began writing hers.
Every version became too angry.
Elaine finally said:
“Write what you want the judge to know, not what you want Warren to feel.”
Gloria started over.
She wrote about Lacey refusing closed doors.
About nightmares.
About the garden.
About losing trust in adults.
About the financial exploitation of a child’s inheritance.
She did not call Warren evil.
She did not need to.
Facts carried enough weight.
Lacey was invited to submit a statement through her therapist.
She refused.
Then changed her mind.
She wrote:
My dad always told me family problems stay inside the family.
I think that rule was for him, not me.
I want to be allowed to tell people when I’m scared.
Three lines.
Gloria cried.
Lacey rolled her eyes.
“You cry too much.”
“I am sixty-six.”
“That’s not a medical reason.”
“Rude.”
Lacey smiled.
The plea hearing was scheduled.
For the first time, the family could see a possible end to the criminal uncertainty.
Not the emotional story.
That would continue.
But the question of whether Warren would force Lacey through a trial might soon be answered.
The night before the hearing, Gloria found Lacey standing at the garden door.
“You want to go outside?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Lacey touched the handle.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Gloria nodded.
“Tomorrow.”
Temporary answers.
May you like
Again.
Healing often arrived as maybe.
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