Page 78 of Finding His Redemption

“Never thought it was.”

With a final glare that encompassed Nessie, Boone, and the entire bakery, Hank stormed out, Margery trotting along beside him, already chattering about fundraising opportunities.

As the door swung shut behind them, the bakery collectively exhaled. Conversations resumed in stilted murmurs.

Nessie leaned against the counter, her knees threatening to buckle now that the adrenaline was ebbing. River sipped his coffee like nothing had happened. Ghost remained a silent sentinel. Boone stood by the door, watching the street as if expecting trouble to circle back.

And that’s when she saw him.

Tucked into the booth beneath the faded photo of Solace’s founding families, a man sat with a paper cup from a truck stop up the highway. Dark gray suit. No tie. Dark hair, bright blue eyes. Familiar.Toofamiliar.

U.S. Marshal Corbin Brandt.

She hadn’t seen him come in. Had he been sitting there this whole time, sipping gas station coffee and quietly watching it all unfold?

Oh, God.

His presence could only mean one thing.

He wanted to take her and Oliver out of Solace.

chapter

twenty-two

Her last customerof the day had barely cleared the door when Brandt materialized from his corner booth.

“We need to talk,” he said, approaching the counter with measured steps.

Nessie’s hands stilled on the espresso machine she’d been wiping down, her pulse spiking as she took in his grim expression. She glanced toward the back staircase. Oliver was upstairs, supposedly working on his math worksheet, but he was probably drawing. She looked back at Brandt. “About what happened earlier? Because I can explain?—”

“Aleksandr Sarkisian was released three days ago.” No preamble, no cushioning blow. That was Brandt, efficient to the point of being clinical.

Her knees buckled, and she gripped the counter to keep from falling as the room tilted sideways. Three days. Alek had been free for three days while she’d been worrying about Jax and small-town politics, completely oblivious to the real danger circling closer.

“How?” she breathed. “The case was—you promised me the case was airtight.”

“It should’ve been, but the cops fucked up. A procedural error in the evidence chain. The trafficking charges were dropped.”

“But the other charges?—”

“Still pending. But he made bail with the help of his dear old dad.” He circled the counter, but stopped short of touching her. He was too much of a professional for that, even though she could’ve used a hug just then.

“How could they let him walk? After everything he did?”

“The legal system isn’t perfect.” Brandt remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. “The case is being reviewed, but for now, he’s free.”

“Free to find us.”

“He doesn’t know where to look.” Brandt’s voice hardened with certainty. “You’re still Vanessa Harmon to anyone who matters. Oliver is still Oliver. Genessa-Rae and Olivander Sarkisian still officially no longer exist.”

Nessie nodded mechanically, trying to force down the panic rising in her throat. Four years she’d been running. Four years of looking over her shoulder, of jumping at shadows, of rehearsing emergency protocols with Oliver until they became second nature. Four years of slowly, painfully building a life she thought might actually last.

“Did they even tell him to stay away from me? Restraining order? Anything?”

“All the usual protections are in place,” Brandt said. “If he attempts contact, he goes straight back to prison.”

“If he gets caught,” Nessie corrected bitterly. “If someone believes me. If I live long enough to report it.”

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