I don’t know if Lee Glazkov will ever walk free again, but it won’t be for many years.
For now, that’s enough.
And if he ever does, I sincerely hope he turns his ruined life around.
There’s nothing like opening your eyes and seeing the world right-side up.
Margot stretches sleepily in my arms, her eyes opening in lazy slits of blue.
“Kane.” Her voice is thick with sleep as she pulls the phone from my hand. “What have I said about brooding alone this early?”
“Only after coffee.”
“Aftercoffee. Actually, only after coffee you’ve made.”
“Isn’t that implied, duchess?” I ask, dropping a kiss on her head.
“Mmm. Any news?”
“Nope. Guess some people speculate we broke up because we haven’t been seen together since the dustup.”
“Screw them!” She snuggles closer. “Who cares what they say? They don’t need to know I wake up in your arms wet every morning.”
I like that.
I like that a fucking lot.
“The rest is all good news,” I promise. “Everything we’d hope for.”
“Mmm.” She kisses my shoulder and rolls over, grabbing the worn, bound journal off her nightstand.
It’s one of the final gifts her granddad left for her, tucked behind that stuck glass panel Lee shot out in his fury. On top of it, there was a broken pair of little shoes. Beautifully painted clay and far more intricate than the other lumpy, unfinished sculptures down there.
They were barely held together too by this crude attempt at gluing them together. At one point, they must’ve been fractured into half a dozen pieces.
After the crime scene was cleared, the police handed Leonidas’ stuff over, saying it wouldn’t be much use as evidence.
I don’t think she ever imagined she’d wind up with the old man’s treasures.
She’s been glued to the journal ever since, flipping through the pages to soak up the wisdom, a different entry every single day. He kept it going for years.
Sometimes the entries make her sad, sometimes happy, and sometimes wistful.
It’s the connection she always wanted from the Great Beyond, and I’m happy as hell for her.
She flicks through the pages again, stopping on a random one. I prop my chin on my fist as I watch her read, her forehead lining with focus.
“Now who’s brooding?” I tease, reaching up to smooth away the lines with my thumb. “What’s he telling you today?”
“Do you want to read it?”
“Read it to me.”
She reaches over for my hand and our fingers twine as she starts at the beginning.
“My darling wife,
You were always right, even when I was too blind to see. Lately, my pride has kept me from seeing anything except the beautiful baby shoes you made—the same ones I savaged in a fit of rage a few months ago.
