“Eleanor Devero, you have the right to remain silent…”
As Kace reads his fiancée her Miranda rights, I glance over at the cops carrying boxes full of my mother’s things. My skin bubbles at the careless way they tossed her books into a box, priceless relics toppled on each other without even a plastic to cover them from the soft drips of lingering rain in the air.
The jar with the bullets is carried separately in an evidence bag, which will probably never be returned to me. Her inspiration jar—sticky notes full of possibilities—are in another plastic sack. The top had popped off, and the bottom of the bag had different colored sticky notes, many faded with age.
Mom loved sticky notes.
Each one of them is going to be read by people who didn’t know her, maybe even lost or thrown in the trash. Mom only ever wrote on yellow sticky notes. There are sixty-seven yellow ones. The ones I added were in blue and white so that when I popped the jar open, it reminded me of sunshine in the morning sky.
The door swings open, and Eleanor Devero sits beside me. But we’ve already established confidence, and I know she still has the envelope I gave her tucked inside the cuff of her socks. We both knew Kace wouldn’t search her. None of them will. She’s one of them.
The car pulls down the long narrow backroad onto the main road. Kace and the officer in front call their captain and convey the information back to him, while Eleanor glances at me.
She mouths the words, “Thank you.”
I return the sentiment in a whisper, “You’re welcome, friend.”
Epilogue
Five months later
Kace Dalton
Stefanie Frank gave birth to my daughter an hour ago. Seven pounds, blonde, perfect, and tiny. Isla Dalton.
Stefanie cut a deal with the DEA and went into witness protection to help take down the doctor from the Pregnancy Center. She should’ve rotted in jail for all the shit she did, but Nolan was right about one thing: forgiveness.
Dwelling on the past will only hurt my relationship with Elle, and it hasn’t been easy redeeming myself in her eyes. Stefanie told her we almost slept together, and that we were naked. Which had been true, but I was in the shower when Stefanie walked in on me, trying to turn me on. It worked.
Then she kissed me, and I almost threw up in my mouth.
It felt wrong, and I hightailed it out of her place, half-naked and wet. I nearly drove home, but I wanted to give Elle time and to give myself space to think. Love isn’t fickle, but the brain is. Every time my heart pinged with the urge to call her, my brain talked me out of it. Had I gone over, maybe all of this could have been avoided.
When Elle came to the precinct with the bullet, I should have known something was off. Even hurt, she never talked to me like that. After arresting Nolan, it took me a week to convince Eleanor I didn’t know Stefanie was pregnant, nor did I know that I played right into her baby trap.
It took another two weeks of groveling for her to let me back in the house. It got weird before it got better. Without Nolan to help her, she retreated inward and left the force. She didn’t want to see me every day, all day. But she opened up her own consulting agency, and we bring her in from time to time to help with interrogations.
Elle and I have had our ups and downs. She forgave me for almost cheating on her, and I forgave her for not pressing kidnapping charges against Nolan Mills. It’s the first time we agreed to disagree on something, and we took a picture of the first time I put her in cuffs.
Not exactly how I pictured that particular first going down, but it was also the first time I understood Elle—really understood where she was coming from. If every day, she felt what I felt when I thought she killed herself because I left her, I get why she pushed me away.
So now, I’m there for her. We still keep the sticky reminders and the smile log, despite it being Nolan’s suggestion.
We were unable to tie his car to the ones used, the Bullet Man is still on the loose. His name didn’t even make the news, as opposed to the nurse, who eventually confessed to delivering drugs. Her name got dragged through the mud, and last I heard, she lost her job. It’s unfair, considering Nolan is still a therapist and more protected than ever.
I don’t even want to broach the subject of how he fucking got away with helping to murder eleven people. Legal technicalities really piss me off.
On the bright side, the killings have stopped, and the homicide rate has returned to normal. Eventually, he’ll mess up, and I’ll be the first person to catch him and throw his smug, arrogant ass in prison.
Until then, I’m working on my relationship with Eleanor. About three months ago, we decided to start dating again. It’s weird, but we’re closer than ever, and she’s excited to be a mom.
And Isla is going to love her. The woman I hate the most in my life is the one who gave me the best gift of all: my daughter.
Stefanie had been a mistake—a seven-year mistake. I was young, working long hours, and she was always there. I didn’t have time for a relationship, and I was lonely, so I slept with her. A lot.
We both used each other for sex. Convenience, which is asshole-ish to say, but it’s the truth. Then she got pregnant, and no way did I see myself raising a baby with this woman. I barely had time to myself; how were we going to raise a kid?
To this day, I regret asking Stefanie to have an abortion. I think the guilt is what made me keep her close and lie to the woman I loved. Stefanie was fine until the day I found out Elle was pregnant. She had been in the room with us, and I found her crying that same day.
She was my friend and I knew to do right by both of them, I needed to put in a new partner request. No one but Cap knew; we wanted to wait until the request went through and until I told Elle before sharing the news. Then the shooting happened, and everything got postponed.
Now Elle and I are full-disclosure and getting married again. We haven’t set the date yet, but we’re thinking of doing it on Tyler’s due date—the eleventh of any month—so we can always remember the journey we’ve taken.
Today, we’re at Tyler’s gravesite. It’s the first time we’ve been here.
“Marker 692,” she says, glancing up at me. “The map says it’s here.”
The window is down, so the cool afternoon breeze circulates through the car. The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts in with the wind. “This is the infant section?”
“Yeah, by that angel statue over there.” She points at the stone woman with long hair and prayer hands, set at the top of the small hill, wings spread out over the grass. A narrow stream circles the bottom with weeping willows extending over the water. A small wooden bridge leads over to the section.
She unfastens her seat belt and rolls the window up. Her hand reaches for me, lacing her fingers through mine. I love that she reaches for me again.
“Did you bring your last sticky note?” I ask.
“It’s in my pocket. I can’t believe we were able to go through all of them.”
I shut the engine off and exit the car, circling the front to open the door for her. She steps out, and I curl my hand around her waist, leading her toward the small bridge. The grass near the angel comes into view, and small cement nameplates are lined up in rows and columns on the almost flat hill. My throat tightens, squeezing the words lodged in my throat. Facing my son, or whatever is left him, is enough to bring a man to his knees.