Z

Nine months later, I unlocked the front door of Sophie’s at five forty-five in the morning.

The sign above the windows had been my idea.

The building had been Declan’s.

Technically.

I bought it from him for one dollar.

He insisted the building had serious plumbing problems and therefore had very little market value.

The city assessor strongly disagreed.

We had argued for three weeks.

Eventually I accepted the ridiculous contract after my lawyer added a clause requiring me to pay full property taxes and preventing Declan from secretly covering them.

He called the clause insulting.

I called it necessary.

Sophie’s wasn’t fancy.

That was the point.

Coffee.

Breakfast.

Soup.

Pie.

And on the wall near the register, one framed sentence from Sophie’s letter:

Go live one.

Please.

Most customers assumed it was inspirational art.

I knew better.

At six fifteen, the first nurses from St. Augustine arrived.

At six thirty, two dockworkers took their usual booth.

At seven, Detective Nora Reyes came in and ordered black coffee.

She still disliked Declan.

She now disliked him professionally instead of personally.

Camden Vale remained in federal custody awaiting trial.

Mason Rourke had accepted a plea agreement after three former employees testified against him.

Forty-seven women had been identified through the ledgers.

Thirty-nine were alive.

Six had been found in other states.

Two had died before we discovered the files.

We put their names on a plaque in the back office.

Money recovered from the network helped establish the Sophie Mercer Fund, which provided emergency grants for families facing medical debt.

I used the sixty-eight thousand dollars Rourke had taken from me to start it.

Declan didn’t argue.

Much.

At eight ten, the bell above the diner door rang.

I knew who it was without looking.

The room reacted first.

Conversation softened.

A spoon stopped halfway to someone’s mouth.

Declan Walsh walked inside wearing a black suit.

Nine months had done nothing to make Grayhaven less afraid of him.

Apparently kissing the man beneath a police helicopter did not improve his public image.

He sat at the counter.

I placed coffee in front of him.

“Pancakes?”

“No.”

“You came into a breakfast restaurant.”

“I’m aware.”

“You always order coffee.”

“I like the coffee.”

“You own an espresso machine worth more than my first car.”

“I like this coffee.”

I leaned closer.

“You like bothering me.”

“That too.”

I smiled.

We had not moved in together.

That surprised everyone.

Especially Ronan.

Declan wanted me safe.

I wanted independence.

Eventually we discovered those things did not have to be enemies.

I had an apartment above Sophie’s.

Declan hated the lock.

So he replaced it.

I hated the replacement.

So I replaced his replacement.

This continued until Mrs. Callahan threatened to shoot both locksmiths.

Relationships, I learned, were mostly negotiation with occasional kissing.

“Did you sleep?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Lie.”

“Four hours.”

“Declan.”

“Five.”

“Better.”

He took a drink.

“You?”

“Six.”

He looked impressed.

I was too.

Once, six hours of sleep would have sounded like luxury.

Now it was a boundary.

I no longer worked until my hands shook.

I no longer whispered ten more minutes while forcing myself through another impossible shift.

Most days.

Healing, unfortunately, was not a straight line.

There were still nights when I woke convinced I had missed a payment.

Still moments when the sight of a blue suit made my stomach tighten.

Still hospital hallways where Sophie seemed to walk beside me.

Declan had nightmares too.

He never described them.

He didn’t have to.

Sometimes at three in the morning, he called.

Sometimes I did.

Neither of us asked why.

“Ronan says you have a meeting today,” I said.

“Ronan talks too much.”

“He likes me.”

“He does.”

“That remains terrifying.”

Declan put down his cup.

“Dinner tonight?”

“I work until seven.”

“After seven.”

“Where?”

“My house.”

“Your cook?”

“I was planning to cook.”

I stared at him.

“No.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“You’ve never tasted my cooking.”

“I want to preserve that record.”

“I can cook.”

“You once burned toast.”

“The toaster malfunctioned.”

“You shot it.”

“It was malfunctioning aggressively.”

I laughed so hard Reyes turned around from her booth.

Declan watched me.

His expression changed.

Softened.

The world rarely saw that side of him.

I liked knowing it existed.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

He looked toward the framed line from Sophie’s letter.

“I was thinking she’d be proud of you.”

My smile faded.

For a second, grief rose like a wave.

Then it passed through instead of knocking me down.

“I hope so.”

“She would.”

“You never met her.”

“No.”

He looked at me.

“But I know the sister she raised.”

That almost broke me.

I came around the counter.

Declan stood.

I wrapped my arms around him.

The most feared man in Grayhaven froze for half a second.

Public affection still confused him.

Then his arms closed around me.

Someone near the window whispered something.

I ignored it.

When I stepped back, Declan reached inside his coat.

My heart stopped.

“No.”

His hand paused.

“What?”

“If that is a ring, put it back.”

For the first time in my life, I saw Declan Walsh panic.

“It isn’t.”

I narrowed my eyes.

He slowly pulled out...

an envelope.

“Oh.”

He looked offended.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“What’s the envelope?”

He handed it over.

Inside was a photograph.

A small house.

White siding.

Blue door.

Garden.

Three bedrooms.

A porch.

“What is this?”

“A house.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s for sale.”

My eyes narrowed.

“Declan.”

“I am not buying it.”

“Good.”

“I thought you might like it.”

“For what?”

His confidence disappeared again.

The mighty Declan Walsh stared at the coffee machine.

“I thought someday we might want somewhere that isn’t my mansion or the apartment above the diner.”

My heart tightened.

He continued quickly.

“Not now.”

“Okay.”

“And not if you don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

“And you’d own half.”

“Declan.”

“Or all.”

I laughed.

He stopped.

“What?”

“You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“You’re terrified.”

He looked offended.

“I have been shot at without being terrified.”

“Exactly.”

I touched his cheek.

“You’re asking me for a future.”

His voice softened.

“Yes.”

No command.

No deal.

No protection disguised as ownership.

Just a question.

I looked again at the photograph.

There was an enormous oak tree in the front yard.

Sophie had always wanted a house with an oak tree.

“We could look at it.”

Declan exhaled.

Only then did I realize he had been holding his breath.

“One condition.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You don’t threaten the realtor.”

“That depends on the realtor.”

“Declan.”

“Fine.”

“And no armed men walking through the open house.”

“Ronan isn’t armed all the time.”

I stared.

Declan sighed.

“Fine.”

I tucked the photograph into my apron.

A customer called for coffee.

I started to return behind the counter.

Declan caught my hand.

“Lena.”

I turned.

He looked down at our joined fingers.

The same fingers that had once wrapped around his wrist while I lay unconscious in a bed I didn’t recognize.

Neither of us had known what it meant then.

Maybe it hadn’t meant anything.

Maybe it had meant everything.

“You know,” he said, “that first night, when you grabbed me…”

“I was unconscious.”

“I’m aware.”

“You bring this up frequently.”

“You told me ten more minutes.”

I smiled.

“And you stayed for hours.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I had asked once before.

He hadn’t answered.

This time he did.

“Because nobody should wake up alone after finally admitting they can’t keep standing.”

The diner disappeared around me for a moment.

All the noise.

Coffee cups.

Orders.

Cars passing outside.

Everything.

I squeezed his hand.

“You saved me.”

His expression hardened slightly.

“No.”

“Declan—”

“You saved yourself.”

He stepped closer.

“I just happened to be sitting beside the bed when you started.”

That was the thing I loved most about him.

He never tried to become my hero.

He simply refused to become another person who expected me to bleed for the privilege of being loved.

I kissed his cheek.

“Dinner tonight.”

His hand tightened around mine.

“You’ll come?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

I pretended to think.

“Give me ten minutes after closing.”

He smiled.

A real smile.

Rare.

Warm.

Mine.

“Take twenty.”

I walked back behind the counter.

Outside, morning sunlight spilled across Grayhaven.

Once, I had believed survival meant getting through ten more minutes.

Then ten more after that.

Then ten more after that.

But Sophie had been right.

Survival was not the same thing as living.

And for the first time since I had buried my sister, I wasn’t counting how many minutes I had left before the next payment.

I wasn’t waiting for someone to collect a debt.

I wasn’t falling.

I looked across the diner.

Declan was still there.

Not holding me up.

Not owning me.

Just staying.

And somehow, that was better.

Because this time when I reached for his hand...

I was wide awake.