I had to have the difficult conversation with Atticus about what my uncle did to me, like I promised I would. It wasn’t easy, but I’m glad I did it. After that, I know I can tell Atticus anything and I won’t be judged. It’s only brought us closer together, though Atticus still makes comments about bringing Frank back to life to kill him all over again. Had he been buried somewhere, he said he would go piss on his grave daily, but they didn’t get rid of his body by burying it. They removed all the nails from him and fed him to some pigs. Apparently, they eat anything when they’re hungry enough.

I blow my father a kiss with tears in my eyes as the guard puts the cuffs back on him.

“I love you, Daddy. Thank you for being the best father ever.”

“I love you, Lils. So damn much. Enjoy your life, sweetheart.”

He gives me the brightest smile, and that’s how I choose to remember him.

Atticus is waiting for me in the parking lot when I leave the prison, and stepping out into the sun and chilly air has never felt so good. I pull my jacket tighter and hurry toward the car. It’s warm inside, and I lean over to kiss my man.

“How was it?” he asks.

I sigh as I put on my seatbelt.

“Bittersweet.”

“Was he upset?”

“Seemed more upset that I was visiting him again. He’s happy for me.” I take his hand, linking out fingers. “For us.”

Atticus kisses the back of my hand before taking off to drive us home. We start packing today, taking only the things we needwith us. Atticus is selling the house furnished, the people who buy it can choose what they do with everything inside. It’s a huge house that I’ve explored, but other than stepping into most rooms just to see what they are, I’ve never spent time in them. And neither has he. It’s a waste for us to be living there. I mean, who needs a house that big?

I told Atticus I didn’t care where we go or where we settle, only that when we do, I want it to be in a small, cozy house where he can’t go too far away from me. He thought that was funny but agreed.

When we get home, I linger in the garage, taking in all the cars. Selling these alone would be enough to live off. I’ve never seen Atticus’s bank account, and I’m not sure I could process the number in there if I did. But it doesn’t matter because I’d stay with Atticus if we had nothing but the clothes on our backs. He’s done so much for me, including making me understand myself better. He loves me for me and makes me happy in ways I can’t describe.

“Did you find the tickets?” I ask as we walk into the house.

“We leave in two weeks,” he says with a smirk.

Wow. Two weeks and we will be in another country, exploring and enjoying life. Neither of us expects Atticus’s needs to stop, and he and his brother have been working together to figure out how they can continue on. They both agreed doing it James’ way makes more sense—picking the bad guys. People are less likely to care when it’s rapists and murderers who go missing. I told them as long as I can pluck an eyeball out now and then, I’ll be happy.

As I follow Atticus upstairs to our room, so I can start packing my clothes, I have a funny thought.

“Am I a serial killer now too?” I ask.

Atticus turns to me with a strange smile. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

Coming to me, he rests his hands on my waist. “Hate to break it to you, kitten, but you haven’t actually killed anyone.”

I gasp, to which he chuckles.

“I did so!”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“That one guy. With the eyeballs.”

He shakes his head. “No, it was me stabbing him that did him in.”

“Frank then. There is no way he survived me crushing his dick. He bled out,” I argue.

Atticus rolls his lips between his teeth, biting back his smile. “Oh, come on!”

He hugs me to his chest. “It’s okay, we can remedy that once we get to Europe.”