Emma's mother reaches me first. She doesn't say anything. Just pulls me into a hug and holds on. Her hands shake against my back. When she finally pulls away, her eyes are wet.
"I'm glad you found her," she says quietly, glancing at Harlow. "Emma would be glad too."
Emma's father steps forward. He doesn't offer his hand. Instead, he pulls me into a brief, fierce embrace. When he releases me, his voice is rough.
"She'd be proud of you, son. So damn proud." He clears his throat. "You didn't let the grief win. That takes strength."
I can't speak. Just nod.
He turns to Harlow. "Good to see you again, Harlow."
Ruth steps forward and pulls Harlow into a hug. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet. "I'm so glad he found you. Emma would be glad too."
Harlow's composure cracks slightly. "I hope so."
"I know so." Ruth squeezes her hands. "Thank you for bringing him back to us."
"I didn't do that. He did the work himself."
"Maybe." Ruth's voice softens. "But you gave him a reason to."
They move on to talk to other people, and I have to take a moment. Breathe. Harlow's hand finds mine and squeezes.
The party winds down slowly. People drift toward the doors in twos and threes. The cleanup crew starts folding chairs. Harlow and I help stack plates until Wells waves us off.
"Get out of here," he says. "We've got this."
We grab our coats and head outside. The night bites cold and sharp. Stars scatter across the sky. Our breath fogs as we walk to the truck, boots crunching on gravel.
"That was a lot," Harlow says.
"Yeah." I open her door. "But good."
I close her door and walk around to the driver's side.
The drive back to the cabin passes in comfortable quiet. When we pull up, I scan the tree line out of habit before we head inside. Nothing but shadows and snow-laden branches.
I build a fire while Harlow disappears into the bedroom. When she returns wearing one of my flannel shirts with her jeans. I've poured two glasses of whiskey. She takes one and curls up beside me on the couch.
"Chris told you something tonight," she says.
"Yeah." I tell her about the communications. The network activity in three cities. The coordination that suggests the Marshal is still operational.
She listens. When I finish, she sets her glass down.
"We're not done."
"No."
"Good." She shifts to face me. "I came to Alaska to hide from what happened with Baker. But you gave me a reason to stop running. This work. You. Making a difference again."
"Even knowing it means more danger? More years chasing ghosts?"
"Especially then." Her voice is steady. "We're building something. Not just us. A whole network of people who won't quit."
She's right. The multi-jurisdictional task force isn't just bureaucracy. It's a community of operators who trust each other.
"The feds just expanded our jurisdiction," I say. "Alaska, Washington, Oregon. You're lead analyst for trafficking operations."
