Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “Thank you for everything, Detective. I can’t tell you how much it means to know Alana and I are safe now.”
“It’s my job. I’ll send over the paperwork for your insurance claim tomorrow. For now, get some rest. You’ve earned it.”
I ended the call, my hands trembling.
“Well?” Jackson asked gently, leaning forward.
“They got him,” I said, my voice breaking. “He confessed.”
Marcus let out a low whistle, his fork pausing mid-air. “Good. That’s where he belongs.”
Jackson reached for my hand, squeezing it lightly. His steady presence felt like an anchor in the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jackson
The bacon sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with its rich, savory aroma. Sunlight streamed through the window above the sink, painting the counters in a golden glow.
I whisked eggs with milk and cheese in a ceramic bowl, the rhythm soothing in the quiet of the morning. Pouring the mixture into the hot skillet, I watched it spread and bubble, filling the air with the promise of a hearty breakfast.
The toaster popped with a cheerful ding, and I grabbed the toast, setting it aside to cool slightly before buttering it. Buttering hot toast always made it soggy—a rookie mistake I didn’t plan to make for Savannah’s breakfast.
The past two weeks had brought more joy and chaos to my home than I’d experienced in years. Alana was a burst of energy, constantly curious, her laughter echoing through the house like music. Savannah... She is everything.
The thought of her stirred something in my chest. Every day, I woke up more in love with her than the day before. It wasn’t justher beauty or the way she carried herself—it was her strength, her kindness, her devotion to her daughter. But I couldn’t push too hard or too fast. Not yet.
Roger’s absence was a relief. The detective’s update had been surprisingly anticlimactic—he was now in a facility for mentally ill patients awaiting trial. He hadn’t mentioned Savannah or Alana, and it seemed unlikely he even remembered them.
While a part of me felt a twinge of pity for the man, it was eclipsed by gratitude that he was no longer a threat.
I knew what a treasure he’d lost. I couldn’t regret it though, since it seemed she was now my woman and her little girl my daughter.
I didn’t mind having a ready-made family. Not when it was these two.
My thoughts drifted as I plated the breakfast—crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly buttered toast. Adding her favorite chai tea to the tray, I carefully carried everything upstairs.
The door to her room was ajar, and I paused for a moment, watching her. She stood by the window, her arms wrapped around herself, gazing at her house. She’d chosen this guest room because it faced her home, and I often found her looking at it, lost in thought.
Even though she seemed at ease here, I knew she longed to return to her own space. Her house was being repaired, and while I was thrilled to have her and Alana in my home, the thought of them leaving filled me with an ache I couldn’t shake.
“Knock, knock,” I said softly, stepping into the room. “Breakfast is served. Hungry?”
She turned, her face lighting up as she spotted the tray. “Oh, I am! Thank you, Jackson.”
She climbed onto the bed, patting the space beside her. I set the tray down, pulling a leg onto the bed as I sat across from her.
“I made a plate for both of us,” I said, handing her a steaming mug of chai. “Thought we could eat together.”
Her smile was warm, a mix of gratitude and affection. “You’re too good to us.”
Hearing her say that made my chest swell with pride. I picked up my plate and started eating as she took a bite of bacon, her eyes widening with delight.
“Bacon is my favorite,” she said around a mouthful, grinning.
“I know,” I replied, smirking. “That’s why I made you half a pound all to yourself.”
Her laugh was like sunshine, and she didn’t hold back, diving into her meal with enthusiasm. Watching her enjoy the breakfast I’d made felt strangely intimate, like we were a real family sharing a quiet morning.
