Page 104 of Unlocking Melodies

I had to sit there trying not to grin like an idiot while my boyfriend systematically destroyed a criminal empire in a suit that probably cost more than my yearly rent. It was oddly hot, if I'm being honest.

Watching Moretti’s face when the verdict came down was better than any Netflix finale. Life without parole - turns out even the best lawyers money can buy can't spin "kidnapping and attempted murder" into a feel-good story. His perfect suit couldn't hide how he deflated like one of Nina's failed soufflé experiments.

The best part? Martha the Attack Chicken got a special mention in the court transcript. Apparently her "tactical intervention" during the arrest was considered relevant evidence. I'm pretty sure she's now got a fan club in the New York DA's office.

The whole town showed up for the verdict, because of course they did. Mrs. Henderson led what she called a "casual observation squad" but was really more like a tactical support team armed with opera glasses and stress-baking supplies. Even Clark was there, somehow managing to look both completely ordinary and vaguely supernatural while serving cat-themed lattes to the courthouse staff.

"Justice is served," Ethan had said afterward, looking unfairly gorgeous in his court-appearance suit. "Though I have to say, your town's version of a victory celebration is... unique."

He wasn't wrong. Nina had organized what she called a "small gathering" at The Watering Hole, which turned into the kind of party that would probably become local legend. Jake and Dawn did dramatic reenactments of the arrest, complete withLuna playing the role of stern judge. My cat's apparently got range.

But it wasn't just about winning the case. Something shifted in me during those weeks - like finally finding the last piece of a puzzle you didn't even know you were solving. The memories were back, yeah, but it was more than that. It was about knowing who I was, who had my back, who'd show up with bulletproof vests and questionable superhuman abilities when things got rough.

Speaking of which, Clark still wouldn't explain how he'd managed those moves during the rescue. Every time someone asked, he'd just smile mysteriously and offer another cat-themed pastry. The guy definitely had some explaining to do, but considering he'd helped save our lives, I figured he'd earned his secrets.

Luna's purr brought me back to the present as she claimed my lap, probably sensing my deep thoughts or just demanding her evening treats. From inside, I could hear Ethan on a business call - something about hostile takeovers and quarterly projections that sounded way too complicated for my small-town brain.

But that was our life now. Corporate empire meets local charm, bulletproof vests meet cat cafés, perfect suits meet Martha's special brand of chicken-based justice. Somehow it worked, in the beautifully chaotic way that only Oakwood Grove could manage.

"You know," I said one evening as we sat on my porch, Ethan's tie loose and my feet in his lap, "now that I remember everything, we should probably talk about Rosewood. About why you left."

His hand stilled where it had been absently tracing patterns on my ankle. "Jimmy, I-"

"No, let me finish." I sat up, needing him to understand. "I get it now. Your father threatening my career, the board's pressure, thinking you were protecting me by staying away. You were trying to do the right thing, even if it was completely misguided and dramatically self-sacrificing."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Dramatically self-sacrificing?"

"Very on-brand for you." I poked his chest. "Mr. 'I'll-Get-Shot-Saving-You.'"

His laugh turned serious as he caught my hand, pressing it over his heart. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "For thinking I knew what was best, for not trusting you enough to make your own choices. For eight years of regret when we could have had this."

"Hey." I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his. "Maybe we needed those years. To become who we are now. To be ready for this version of us."

"Look who's getting philosophical," he murmured, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Well, one of us has to be the wise one in this relationship. Clearly not you, Mr. 'Helicopters-Are-Valid-Date-Transportation.'"

His kiss tasted like forgiveness and future and the kind of love that survives memory loss and dramatic rescues and eight years of careful distance. When we pulled apart, something had settled between us - the last piece of our past finally finding its place.

Speaking of chaos - the delayed Harvest Festival had transformed our little town into what Mrs. Henderson called a "seasonal extravaganza" but looked more like autumn had exploded everywhere. Not that I was complaining, especially since the delay had given everyone (namely me and my collection of dramatically injured loved ones) time to properly heal.

The golden afternoon light painted everything in Instagram-worthy hues, which Nina was definitely documenting for the bar's social media. Kids zoomed past in sugar-fueled orbits, sticky with caramel apple evidence. Tommy, Jake and Elliot's ridiculously energetic eight-year-old, had appointed himself Luna's official playmate, chasing her through pumpkin displays while she pursued a particularly ambitious butterfly.

"Got you!" I scooped Tommy up mid-sprint, his delighted squeal probably registering on seismic monitors.

"You're it!" He tapped my shoulder with the kind of authority only kids can manage before launching himself back into the festival chaos. Luna gave me a look that clearly said "well, aren't you going to chase us?" before bounding after him.

"Jimmy!" Elizabeth Cole's voice carried across the festival grounds. Ethan's mom stood with her husband and Mia, waving a plate of what looked like her famous apple pie. She'd arrived yesterday and immediately adopted the entire town, treating everyone like long-lost family. The way she'd hugged me - warm and real and accepting - had definitely not made me cry. Much.

"Jimmy!" Elizabeth Cole waved that plate of pie like it was a homing beacon. Honestly, the way she'd taken to small-town life made me wonder if she'd secretly been practicing for this role. Here was a woman who usually attended charity galas with names I couldn't pronounce, and she'd shown up to our festival wearing a hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Henderson's craft circle.

"You have to try this," she insisted as I approached, practically radiating mom energy. "I used your mother's recipe - the one with the secret ingredient. Gary shared it with me last night."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Mom's apple pie?" My voice definitely didn't crack on those words. "With the vanilla bean and..."

"And cardamom," she finished, her eyes soft with understanding. "He said it was your favorite. That she'd make it every fall."

I took the offered plate with slightly shaky hands. The first bite hit me like a memory - Sunday afternoons in our tiny kitchen, mom dancing while she baked, dad pretending not to sneak pieces when she wasn't looking.

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