She's still sitting at the table, but there's nothing defeated about her posture. Her eyes are bright, her chin lifted, watching the patrol car pull away with the satisfaction of someone who just won a war.
I crouch down beside her chair. "You did it."
The grin hasn't faded. "He's actually gone. And if he ever comes back?—"
"He'll answer to the Brotherhood." I take her hands in mine. "But he's not coming back. Shaw's going to make sure of that."
She squeezes my fingers, and I see certainty settle in her expression. The knowledge that she's not alone anymore, and she never has to be again.
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I see the emotions churning behind her eyes. Relief, anger, grief, triumph, all fighting for dominance.
"I need to give a statement," she says.
"I know. I'll be right here the whole time."
The next few hours are a blur of paperwork and questions. A detective arrives to take our statements, and Gemma recounts the conversation with a clarity that impresses everyone listening. She doesn't minimize or equivocate. She tells the truth, all of it, and I watch the detective's expression shift from professional neutrality to quiet outrage on her behalf.
Cole hovers nearby, torn between wanting to comfort his sister and wanting to drive to the police station and finish what we started. Shaw keeps him occupied with logistics, redirecting his protective energy into something productive. Tate disappears at some point, probably to coordinate with his contacts and make sure Craig's booking goes smoothly.
By the time we're finished, the sun is setting over the harbor, painting the water in shades of orange and pink. Gemma stands at the railing where she sat for lunch, staring out at the boats bobbing gently in their slips.
I come up beside her and rest my hands on the railing. "Ready to go home?"
She nods, but doesn't move. "It doesn't feel real yet. Like I'm going to wake up tomorrow and find out this was all a dream."
"It's real. I promise."
She turns to face me, and for the first time since Craig appeared, I see the cracks in her composure. The control she's been holding onto all day is starting to slip.
"Take me home," she whispers. "Please."
The drive back to my place is silent. Gemma sits in the passenger seat with her head against the window, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it. I don't try to fill the silence with words. Some things don't need to be talked through; they need to be felt.
Inside the house, she makes it as far as the living room before she stops. Just stops, like her body has decided it's done carrying her through this day.
"Gemma?"
She turns to face me, and the tears come all at once.
The sob that tears out of her is deep and wrenching, nothing like the controlled woman who faced down her abuser three hours ago. Her knees buckle, and I catch her before she hits the ground, lowering us both to the floor and pulling her against my chest.
"Let it out," I murmur against her hair. "I've got you. Let it all out."
She cries like she's been holding it in for years. Maybe she has. The tears soak through my shirt, and her whole body shakes with the force of her grief. Not grief for Craig, for the marriage that ended. Grief for the woman she was before him, for the years she lost, for the version of herself she had to bury just to survive.
I hold her through all of it. I don't try to fix it or make it better or offer platitudes about how everything will be okay. I just stay steady and present, letting her know she's not alone anymore.
Eventually, the sobs taper off into shuddering breaths. She stays curled against me, her fingers twisted in the fabric of my shirt.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Don't be. You've earned every one of those tears."
"I just kept thinking about all the times I almost left. All the times I talked myself out of it, convinced myself it wasn't that bad, that I was overreacting." She pulls back to look at me, her face tear-streaked and swollen. "What if I'd left sooner? What if I'd been braver?"
"You were brave enough to leave when it mattered. That's what counts."
"It feels like I wasted so much time."
