I wasn’t sure how much more I could handle.

My mother was down the hall, in a coma, hooked up to too many beeping machines. The doctors had run all sorts of tests and had shared theories and ideas, but the bottom line: all we could do was wait.

I didn’t know if I could take another day of sitting across from my father. With each hour that passed without any sign of improvement, he looked more and more like a shell of the man he’d been.

My father had always been larger than life. Confident. In command. But this experience had exposed him as all too human. For two days I’d listened to him speak to my mother’s unconscious form while clutching her hand, and I’d come to realize that much of my father’s strength stemmed from his love for my mother. And without her standing next to him, he was … broken.

I pushed up off the floor and started back down the hall. I’d give him another few hours and then I’d try, once again, to convince him to go home, shower, and get some rest. So far, we’d both been terrified to leave her side for more than a few moments at a time, certain that without us there, she’d just slip away.

Settling myself back into my chair at my mother’s bedside, I listened to my father launch into another trip down memory lane. This time about how angry Mom had been when Dad had laughed after she’d burned their first dinner as a married couple, and how he’d told her he’d eat charred meatloaf for the rest of his damned life and smile while it crunched. His quiet words washed over me, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d have a chance to make those kinds of memories with Charlie. I stared down at my phone, willing it to ring.

It didn’t.

There are experiences in life that make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

Like watching your father be led away in handcuffs after learning that he allegedly committed the largest financial fraud in the history of the world.

Like arriving in a new city, a fake ID in your pocket, and realizing the rest of your life would be built on a lie.

Like meeting someone who made you want more than the half-life you’d thought would be enough.

Like today. Today had made me question everything.

My strength, my fortitude, my intelligence, my sanity.

I sat huddled on a steel bench in “the bin” at Rikers Island, my body shuddering as the adrenaline seeped away. I brought my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. Tears tracked down my aching face to soak into the gray cotton of my jumpsuit. My left eye had already swelled shut.

The last eighteen hours had taken me down the rabbit hole, and I was fairly certain I would never find my way back. And let me tell you, this rabbit hole was fucking scary.

How did I find myself in solitary at Rikers? I’d like to say it’s a long story, but it really wasn’t. It was the result of the dangerous combination of my own arrogance and ignorance.

I’d been so cocky and self-assured as I’d sat in the interrogation room at the FBI field office, making my demands before I’d deign to speak to them about what I knew. I could only imagine how stupid they’d thought I was.

First lesson learned today: an immunity, or proffer, agreement didn’t mean shit. I’d confidently signed my name—my real name—across the bottom and told the FBI the locker number and combination where they could find the notebook, along with my backpack. Nine hours of questioning later, Childers had said we were done. I’d stood to leave, but the door had opened and two of New York’s Finest had walked in. When I looked questioningly at Childers, one of the officers had said: “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit grand larceny in the first degree.” He’d followed those chilling words with another recitation of my Miranda rights.

Second lesson learned today: if the FBI wasn’t done questioning you, but didn’t want to let you go because they were afraid you’d run, they’d contact the district attorney and have state law charges filed against you. Childers was kind enough to explain this to me as the cold metal of the handcuffs closed around my wrists.

Third lesson learned today: I didn’t deserve Simon. He’d once again proven he was too good for me. As the two NYPD officers were leading me through the lobby, a distinguished-looking man in a pricey tailored suit had stopped them.

“My name is Andrew Ivers,” he’d said. “Simon Duchesne has arranged for me to represent you, Ms. Agoston. I apologize for not intercepting you on your way into the building this morning.”

I’d wondered if I would have listened to him even if he had stopped me earlier. But it didn’t matter. What was done was done.

Ivers had exchanged a few words with Childers and was up to speed within moments. He’d promised to be present at my arraignment.

Yeah.

My arraignment.

It didn’t get any more real than that.

After a short ride in the backseat of a police car, the officers hauled me into a precinct where I was booked—fingerprints, mug shot, the works. Then I was shuttled to Central Booking at the New York City Criminal Court for further processing. After being shoved into a holding cell with a dozen other women who, from the looks of them, were primarily hookers and crack addicts, I waited. And waited. A few hours later I was escorted into a courtroom that looked altogether too much like the one I had escaped from over a year before. The difference between then and now? I wasn’t leaving this room a free woman.

The arraignment hadn’t lasted more than five minutes. Ivers and the prosecutor had spoken rapidly, firing words at the judge. I caught phrases like one-ninety-fifty and remand. It was yet another code I couldn’t crack. All too quickly, I was being led out of the courtroom, and Ivers had followed me into a small room. His explanation of what had just happened, and what was going to happen next, had scared the hell out of me.

I’d been denied bail. Ivers had argued for an astronomical figure, but given the flight risk I presented, the judge had been resolute.

Nothing Ivers could have said would have prepared me for the reality of being chained to the arm of another woman as the bus chugged toward Rikers and then, upon arrival, being stripped of my clothes and my dignity. But three things he’d said stuck with me. First, his phone number, not that I could make calls from the bin. Second, Simon had ordered him to do whatever he could to help me. And third, I only had to endure this hell for 144 hours. Then they either had to indict me or conduct a preliminary hearing in front of a judge. Six days. I could survive anything for six days. I hoped. The second bit of information was all that was holding me together at that moment. The knowledge that even though he knew everything, Simon hadn’t given up on me yet. Which meant I wasn’t giving up either.