Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Dean. For everything.”
He grunts. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got to break the news to her. And hey”—his voice lightens—“maybe I’ll see you around here soon, without guns blazing.”
“Count on it,” I say, cracking a wry grin.
Dean ends the call, and I let my hand drop to my side. My gaze drifts back to the lake, but I can hardly see it now through the adrenaline pumping in my veins. Charles is done—he can’t harm Aubree anymore. She can go home. It’s everything I’ve wanted for her since I first took on this job.
Yet beneath the relief, there’s another emotion twisting in my gut: what happens next for us?
I find Aubree in the kitchen, her hair bundled in a messy bun, rummaging for breakfast. She turns the second she sees me, her eyes scanning my face. “You look… tense,” she says, stopping with a carton of eggs in hand.
“It’s good tense,” I say, stepping forward. I rest a palm on her shoulder, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. “Dean just called.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh God, what happened?”
I squeeze her shoulder gently. “He’s got proof—solid proof—that your stepfather orchestrated this whole thing. They confronted Charles. He’s in custody. He confessed.”
She sets the eggs down abruptly, covering her mouth with both hands. “He— so he’s caught?”
I nod, watching as her emotions flit across her face—shock, relief, anger, sadness. “It’s over. You’re safe. You can go home.”
Her eyes brim with tears, but this time, they’re tears of relief. She exhales a shaky breath, stepping into me. I envelop her in my arms, letting her press her face to my chest. We stand there for a long moment, and I hear the soft hitch of her breath as she processes it all.
Eventually, she leans back, swiping at her cheeks with a watery smile. “I can’t believe it. This nightmare is… done?”
“Done,” I confirm. “Your mother’s waiting for you at the shop, I think. Or your house. Dean said she left Charles—completely.”
Fresh tears prick Aubree’s eyes, but she nods fiercely. “Good. She deserves better. He— I can’t believe he was behind it all. Hiring people to scare me, to— to harm me, just for money?”
I rub my hand up and down her back. “He wanted to control your mom’s inheritance. Maybe he thought scaring you off would give him more leverage. We’ll probably never understand all the details, but the important thing is he can’t do anything else. The police have him, and Maddox Security has more than enough evidence to keep him locked up.”
She drops her head onto my shoulder. “Thank God,” she whispers.
We pack quickly. It’s surreal, folding clothes and stashing them in duffel bags, knowing this time we’re not fleeing to another safe house—we’re heading home. Aubree’s quiet, occasionally stopping to stare at something in the cabin—a throw blanket, the bed we’ve shared, the windows that overlooked the lake. There’s a bittersweet undercurrent to it all. This place has been our sanctuary, our prison, and our weird little nest all at once.
After a final sweep, we load up the truck. I notice her lingering by the doorway, taking one last look at the cabin. I touch her elbow gently. “You okay?”
She lets out a breath, glancing at me. “Yeah. Just… a lot of memories here.”
I don’t say anything, just slip my hand into hers. We walk out together, and I lock up behind us. Then we climb into the truck, the engine rumbling to life. Aubree watches out the window as I steer us down the dirt road leading back to the main highway.
The drive feels longer than it should, maybe because we’re both anxious about what waits for us. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, glancing at me every so often with a mix of excitement and nervousness. I reach over, resting a comforting hand on her knee whenever the traffic slows enough that I can spare a hand from the wheel.
“Do you think… my shop’s okay?” she asks at one point, voice trembling with the question.
I nod. “Dean said the cops were investigating, and they’ll have it secured. It might need some repairs, but it’s still yours. Nothing can change that.”
She exhales, a ghost of a smile forming. “I really just want to walk inside, see it with my own eyes.”
“You will,” I promise.
We cross the city limits of Nashville by late afternoon, the once-familiar skyline greeting us with its mix of old and new buildings. I feel a pulse of adrenaline. It’s strange to be back, knowing how much has changed since we left. Finally, I navigate the streets leading to Aubree’s neighborhood.
We park outside her home—a modest one-story, white siding, with a small front porch. My hand hovers over the ignition, and I glance at her. “Ready?”
She swallows. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”