Page 111 of At First Flight
“No,” she says softly. “It’s about surviving the mess and still waking up the next day.”
I nod.
And for a long moment, we just sit there. Two women trying to carve something decent out of the wreckage. She tells me how she learned he had planned to murder her and take claim of her family’s racing horse estate. Something only she was the last beneficiary and heir of.
She hands me a card when she stands to leave. “If you want to talk. Or testify. Tell your side of the story. You won’t be alone in voicing his manipulations and emotional abuse. Oreven just scream at someone who deserves it. You’re not alone anymore. And no matter what, Prescott and his parents will pay for everything they’ve done to every person they’ve hurt. I’m going to make sure of it.”
I don’t take the card right away but then slip the cardstock from her fingers. She gives me a small smile. “If you watch the news at all, they’re going to arrest him tomorrow. Should be some entertaining TV.”
I watch her slip into her car and drive away on the gravel path disappearing among the trees. I still wonder how she found me.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.
Later that night, I lie in Dean’s bed and stare at the ceiling. I think about the way he holds Evelyn when she’s scared. The way Oliver lights up when Dean shows up to help him build a lopsided LEGO city.
I think about the way he kissed me like I wasn’t breakable. Like he didn’t see my cracks as faults, but as spaces to fill with light.
And I wonder…maybe starting over doesn’t mean forgetting everything that came before. Maybe it just means forgiving myself for what I let happen. And letting someone stay, even when it scares the hell out of me.
The house is quieter than usual. Evelyn is tucked into bed, one leg thrown over her stuffed fox, waves sticking to her cheeks. Oliver asked for one more story but fell asleep three pages in. I lingered longer than I needed to, brushing his hair back from his forehead, watching his chest rise and fall like the steady rhythm of something safe.
When I finally pad into the living room, Dean’s there.
He’s on the couch, legs stretched out, wearing an old hoodie and gym shorts. He looks up when I walk in, and the soft, uncertain expression on his face guts me. It’s like he knows something shifted today, and he’s waiting to see if it has cracked or healed.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
I sink into the opposite end of the couch, tucking one leg under me.
He watches me for a second too long, then asks, “You okay?”
I nod. “Marin came by today. Prescott’s wife.”
His jaw tightens instantly. “Here? What did she want?”
“To apologize.”
That gets a blink. “You’re kidding.”
“She’s building a case against him. And everyone who helped cover up everything he and his family have ever done.”
He exhales and rubs a hand down his jaw. “That’s… a lot.”
“It was.”
I tell him everything. The way Marin looked small, tired, but honest. The way she didn’t try to defend why she let it go so far. How tomorrow should make for some interesting news with the Hoolihan arrests.
He listens quietly, patiently. Like he always does when the world inside me is too loud.
When I finish, he nods slowly. “How do you feel?”
“Lighter. And also like I’ve been holding my breath for two years.”
He shifts closer. Not all the way. Just enough that our knees brush.
“You can let it out now,” he murmurs.
