"Ex-SWAT. Besides, she makes those molasses cookies I like."
"Ah, so it's a cookie rescue mission."
"It's a valuable exchange." Michael grinned, retrieving his boots from beside the door. "Save me some of those comments from your class. I want to hear what your students think about whistleblowing."
"They're remarkably idealistic."
"Good. Someone should be."
Michael planted a kiss on my cheek. "See you later, Professor."
"Later, Officer."
The door closed behind him with a gentle click, leaving me alone with the sounds of our coastal home—the persistent crash of waves and the occasional cry of gulls.
Through the window, I watched Michael cross the yard to Mrs. Yablonski's weathered pickup. She waved from the driver's seat, her white hair clearly visible. Michael helped unload several grocery bags from the truck bed, laughing at something she said.
He still woke from some dreams shouting and panting for breath. I still checked door locks twice on some nights, but wariness and vigilance weren't central to Michael's life anymore. We were.
***
As we lingered over the remains of dinner, Michael's phone lit up with Marcus's name. Michael answered on speaker, leaning back in his chair.
"Little brother," Marcus began, that note of affectionate authority still present after all this time. "James has been on me about taking time off since February, and I finally caved."
Michael's eyebrows rose. "The infallible Marcus McCabe, willingly stepping away from work? I'm shocked."
"Think you could tolerate houseguests for a week? James is dying to see your place, and I—" A pause, unusual for Marcus. "I miss you, little bro." I nodded without hesitation.
"Can you bring Mom along if she'll come?"
I heard a smile in Marcus's voice. "I think she'd love it. She's been dying to see your place."
Later that evening, we sat on our weathered porch facing the ocean. Dusk was slowly approaching, signaled by cool lavenders and smoldering oranges spreading across the sky.
Michael rubbed his chin. "I think that storm will get here faster than the forecasters predicted."
"The weather app says it'll hit around midnight. It's going to be a wicked one."
Michael sipped a glass of wine. "Better secure the kayaks."
"Already did. And the porch furniture."
Miles had called earlier as promised, his excitement crackling through the speaker as he shared news of a new job decision. He'd decided to hang out his own shingle and work in a solo practice.
Michael shifted beside me, reaching into his pocket. "Almost forgot. This was in the mailbox."
He handed me a worn envelope, already opened. Inside was a newspaper clipping—an announcement of formal charges against three former executives of Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies.
My fingers trembled slightly as I smoothed out the creases in the paper. Names I recognized from our investigation stared back at me—Edward Kline, VP of Development; Darius Sullivan, Chief Security Officer; and Victoria Mendes, Lead Systems Architect. Despite knowing its catastrophic error rate, all three had signed off on Project Asphodel's deployment.
I sighed. "It took fifteen months for the justice department to build a case we handed them."
Michael's hand covered mine. "But they built it. They're following through."
The weight of vindication settled in the back of my mind—not the triumphant elation I'd imagined during our darkest days, but something steadier. Validation. Accountability. A world incrementally shifted toward truth.
I asked, "Will you testify if they call you?"
