Page 81 of Resilient Rhythms
I blow out a sigh and hold Mckenna tighter.
TWENTY-TWO
MCKENNA
The daysthat follow Laura’s call are some of the strangest hours of my life. Time passes both quickly and slowly. My head is a mess. My emotions are all over the place. Confusion and hope. Worry and anxiety.
It all comes to an end four days later. I’m alone in the kitchen at the band’s brownstone, sitting at the butcher block island and researching various legal positions, when my phone rings.
When I note May’s number, I suck in a breath. My finger trembles as I swipe across the screen and lift my phone to my ear.
“May,” I murmur.
“Hi, Mckenna,” she says kindly.
I release a shaky breath. “Tell me. I’m ready.”
“All right,” she agrees calmly. “I have an update about the outcome of the case involving Branson Burton. This morning, the defendant pled guilty to one count of rape, two counts of assault and battery, and one count of unlawful possession of a weapon. The defendant has been sentenced to thirteen years in state prison followed by five years of probation. Once released from prison, he will have to register as a sex offender and comply with additional probation conditions. He will be eligible forparole after serving approximately eight years and ten months of his sentence, although that is not guaranteed and will be up to the decision by the parole board. We will notify you if there are any appeals, status changes, or parole hearings. Do you have any questions, Mckenna? Or would you like to arrange for a follow-up call after you’ve had some time to digest this information?”
Holy shit. My heart pounds erratically and my palm feels clammy even though I’m gripping the phone hard enough to crack my knuckles.
On my laptop screen, the letters swim and words blur together. I pull in another breath, trying to quiet my mind enough to think straight. I suck in another lungful of oxygen.
“Yes,” I manage to say after a long moment. My voice is scratchy. Hell, my throat feels simultaneously dry and like I could vomit. “I’d like to arrange a follow-up call.”
“How about I email you some dates and times and you can confirm once you’ve had some time?”
“Good. That’s good, May.”
“Okay. Thank you, Mckenna.” May disconnects the call.
I drop my forehead to the top of the butcher block, resting it against the ledge.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself. When I straighten, the tears come. Tears of relief and anguish. My chest heaves as I press my face into my hands and sob. Laugh. Remind myself to fucking breathe.
Bran pled guilty. Guilty!
Did his family put pressure on him? Talk sense into him?
Did he make the decision on his own, propelled from some semblance of conscience?
I shake my head. I can’t believe it. He pled guilty.
And now, he will serve thirteen years in prison.
Relief flows through my veins as I sit in the quiet of The Burnt Clovers brownstone and feel the page turn on a chapter I’ve lived in too long.
So much pain. Agony. Uncertainty. Loss.
And yet, those months of not knowing, not understanding, and not belonging led me here. To this home. To Maverick Tate. To stability and family and love.
My sobs soften into shaky exhales as the instant release of emotion runs its course.
I’m okay. I drag a palm across my abdomen. We’re okay. I sputter as I glance around the kitchen, my home for the past year. Everything is fucking okay.
“Mckenna,” Mav calls out as he enters the brownstone. “I think I like daffodil best. It has more golden undertones than limoncello. I think that has more of a peach, maybe even orange, hue to it and—what’s wrong?” He stops in the entrance to the kitchen when he sees me.
“Maverick,” I say, my voice breaking.
