The words landed heavier than she expected. Izzy blinked, touched the necklace at her collarbone, the weight settling like a promise.
She ducked into the cruiser. The door shut, the engine rose, and as the car pulled away, Caitlin lifted a hand in farewell. Izzy mirrored it through the glass until the bend in the road swallowed them both.
The sound of tires fading down the mountain stayed with her long after.
Burke’s voice came steady beside Caitlin. “She’s tougher than she knows.”
Caitlin nodded, her voice thin. “So am I.”
Burke’s eyes softened. “Yeah. You are.”
As the cruiser’s taillights vanished around the bend, Caitlin gripped Izzy’s photo. The old ache of abandonment threatened, whispering that everyone leaves eventually. But as Burke’s armwrapped around her shoulders and Rosie leaned in, warm and insistent, she let that old fear recede. She pressed the photo to her heart—proof that some bonds, once nearly broken, were also the ones that remade her.
Jason West
Later that night, in his Denver office,broadcast lights washed the front of West Custom Homes—a mansion of limestone and glass perched above the city. Reporters stood at the gate, breath misting in the cool air.
“We’re waiting for comment from CEO Jason West,” the anchor said, voice tight against the wind.
The camera caught Jason descending the wide stone steps. Navy suit, silk tie, cuff links straight as compass points. Before stepping to the microphones, he adjusted the line of his pocket square and set his shoulders with a slow breath—two quiet seconds of control.
“Mr. West,” someone called, “your associate Evan Cole was sentenced today in North Carolina. Any comment?”
Jason’s smile was courteous, almost weary. “Tragic all around,” he said. “I’m grateful justice was served, and I wish everyone involved a measure of peace.”
He let the pause breathe just long enough for the cameras to love him, then inclined his head. “I’ll be focusing on my company and on building homes that stand the test of time. That’s where my attention belongs.”
Flashbulbs strobed. He turned away with practiced calm, fingertips grazing the Range Rover’s handle. The door shut, the engine rose, and the broadcast faded into the anchor’s sign-off.
In his office later, Jason replayed the segment on mute. He studied his reflection in the glass—unmoved, immaculate.On the desk before him, three pens lay perfectly parallel, clips aligned. He straightened the center one by a hair’s width.
“Flawless,” he murmured.
Then the screen cut to footage from Sylva—the courthouse steps, Caitlin West between Burke Scott and Scout Wilson. Izzy Moreno in her sling, light catching her temple. Survivors, all of them.
Caitlin’s coat caught the sun, crisp white against the mountain backdrop. Her composure unnerved him—so calm, so certain.
She was made for glass and order, not mud and pine. She just hasn’t realized it yet.
His reflection overlapped hers on the screen: his hand adjusting the final pen into line, his expression serene.
Some stories didn’t end. They simply waited.
Chapter 57
Haven
Caitlin
The mountains were still half-asleep, mist curling low across the ridge when Caitlin’s phone buzzed against the kitchen counter.
A group text —Turkey Trouble— lit the screen.
Izzy:Happy Thanksgiving, my mountain people. All’s quiet out here in Denver — no ledges, no lunatics, no courtrooms. Just coffee, sunshine, and a pie I might’ve baked myself.
Izzy:I’m alive, caffeinated, and thankful — especially for you three.
Izzy:Save me a slice of pie and a chair by the fire. I’ll be back around Christmas. Promise.
