He laughed, eyes wild. “They won’t do nothin’. Who do you think helped me cover it up all those years ago? My old friend the chief.” His laughter grew maniacal.
I turned to leave, but heard him get up and swiveled around. He swung at me, but I dodged, grabbed his arm, and threw him against the wall. The drywall cracked, dust raining down.
I held him there, face inches from his. “I’m not afraid of you anymore,” I whispered.
He sagged, all the fight gone. Just a tired old man, propped up by hate. “Still won’t believe you.”
I let him go, watched as he slid to the floor, gasping.
I pulled out my phone and hit the stop button on the whole ugly truth. “Yeah, well they’ll believe your own words.” I sent the file to the podcaster, the news, the police.
It was out there now.
And I was free.
Twenty-Five
Lily
The new car still didn’t feel like mine. At first, I only drove it when I absolutely had to—preschool pickup, groceries, a run out to the pharmacy when Noah’s cough came back with a vengeance. But that day, cruising out to Chickadee with the backseat filled with Noah’s babble and the trunk packed with three different kinds of takeout, the SUV felt less like a present I didn’t deserve and more like a second skin. The novelty of seat warmers and hands-free Bluetooth and new car smell still lingered.
We’d taken the backroads, Noah chiming in every time he saw a horse, a tractor, or a distant cow. He’d started mooing at them as if they could hear him, which was both cute and a little embarrassing, especially when we passed actual livestock and he shouted, “Moo!!” out the open window. I kept glancing at him in the rearview, catching his bright eyes and crumb-smeared cheeks, and every time I did, something inside my chest tugged hard enough to ache.
We pulled into the Chickadee’s drive just as the last of the light bled out of the sky. The exterior looked even better than last week. Ford had torn out the sickly rosebushes and the cracked concrete walk, replacing them with a raw, unfinishedpath and mulch. A battered wheelbarrow leaned against the porch, and somewhere a radio played 70s country, low and warm. The front windows glowed, every single one, like the house was welcoming us home.
“Here we are, bug,” I said.
I grabbed the takeout bags and Noah’s backpack (which, at this point, was basically a mobile toy chest), then popped Noah out of his car seat. He landed with both feet, grabbed my hand, and yanked us straight to the front door before I could even lock the car. Inside, the warmth hit us like a wall. Ford stood in the foyer, boots off, hair still damp from a quick shower. He wore a gray T-shirt that clung to his chest and jeans slung low, and I could have spent the rest of the night staring at his forearms as he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel.
“Hey, stranger,” he said, voice lazy but bright.
Noah shot past me, almost tripping on the door frame. “Hi Ford!” he shouted.
Ford dropped to one knee and opened his arms, and my son crashed into his chest like a missile, smacking Ford right in the jaw with a stuffed giraffe. Ford didn’t even flinch. He hugged Noah tight, then let him climb up his back and perch on his shoulders. I’d never seen my kid so instantly comfortable with someone outside of our tiny family.
“You’re gonna break his neck,” I said, laughing despite myself.
“Built Ford tough,” he replied, as if he’d been waiting for the opportunity.
Noah cackled and yanked at his hair. Ford shot me a look—a mixture of apology and pride, like he was sorry for corrupting my son but also a little pleased.
I set the takeout on the kitchen island and started unpacking cartons. Ford carried Noah around as he made quick work of finding plates and forks, narrating every step like he was hostinga cooking show. I watched the way he moved, comfortable and easy, and wondered what it would be like to live this way every day. To let someone else shoulder the weight for a while.
We ate at the island, Noah perched between us, making a mess of his rice but grinning like a madman. Ford and I kept the conversation light—mostly about house projects, Whittier gossip, and what was new at the preschool. Every now and then, our eyes would meet, and something unspoken passed between us. It wasn’t heavy or loaded with expectation, just warm. Like we were both still a little amazed this was real.
After dinner, Ford handled cleanup while I wrangled Noah into washing his hands and wiping orange chicken from his face. The kid’s eyelids drooped halfway through dessert, and I didn’t even bother protesting when he started crawling into my lap, seeking warmth and comfort. I held him close, breathing in the last hints of baby shampoo, and felt my own body begin to sag with exhaustion.
Ford must have seen it, because he offered, “Why don’t you put him down in the guest room? It’s mostly set up now.”
I nodded, grateful and excited to have adult time. “Thanks.”
He smiled, soft and unguarded. “No problem.”
I gathered Noah, who protested sleep only by whimpering and clinging harder. Ford led us down the hall, past the living room and a stack of boxes labeled “OFFICE” and “MISC—PROBABLY TRASH.” The guest room was at the top of the stairs.
When I pushed open the door, I stopped in my tracks.
It wasn’t the beige, featureless spare room I remembered from Ford’s earlier tour. The lights were low, but I could see right away what he’d done. The old queen bed had been swapped for a twin, the frame painted a bright, ridiculous green. Dinosaur sheets—Triceratops and T. rex, all in clashing colors—were tucked with military precision. A tiny lamp shaped like acrescent moon sat on the nightstand, casting soft light over the room. On the wall above the bed, Ford had stuck up those glow-in-the-dark stars that kids always wanted but never managed to keep attached for long.
