"Don't apologize." Walter rested a gentle hand on her arm. “We’re just glad you’re safe, and that Callie and the man she hired have been arrested.”
Ashley and Hasley crowded in, both talking at once about how scared they'd been, how brave she was, how they were never letting her out of their sight again, either. Riley hung back slightly, typing on her phone, probably already documenting everything for legal purposes or social media damage control.
Devon watched them all fuss over Emery, his family claiming her as one of their own, and felt his throat tighten. This was what he'd wanted. What he'd hoped for but hadn't quite believed could happen.
Emery belonged here. With them. With him.
And now that they'd almost lost her, he was never letting her go.
Nineteen
TWO WEEKS LATER…
The main house felt suspended in time, caught in that peculiar afternoon quiet when the world outside continued, but everything inside held its breath. Sunlight filtered through the dining room windows in dusty beams, catching on the polished mahogany table where a single manila folder sat like a verdict waiting to be read.
Emery couldn't stop staring at it.
That folder—unremarkable, standard office supply store manila—contained the answer to every question she'd asked herself since she was old enough to understand what "adopted" meant. Inside those pages lived the truth about who she was, where she’d come from, and why an eighteen-year-old girl had kept her for five weeks and then let her go.
Devon sat to her right, his presence solid and warm, his hand resting on the table close enough that she could reach for it when the ground shifted beneath her feet. Her father occupied the chair across from her, his expression already braced for impact, already preparing to catch her when she fell.
Declan, the private investigator, and Harlan, the family attorney, flanked the other sides of the table, wearing matching expressions of professional gravity. This was the look peoplewore when they were about to change your life. The look that said I'm sorry for what I'm about to tell you, but you asked for the truth.
"Before we open this," Harlan said, his voice measured and careful, "I want to make sure you understand what we're dealing with. What Declan learned isn't just information—it's your history. And once you know it, you can't unknow it."
"I understand." Emery's voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Declan's investigation uncovered records of a private adoption. Black market, technically illegal, but documented nonetheless." Harlan's fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled. "We have evidence that strongly suggests you're David Callaway's biological daughter. But ‘strongly suggests’ isn't proof."
"Which is why DNA testing is the next step," Declan added. His weathered face showed years of delivering difficult news, of being the bearer of truths people didn't want to hear. "I've already spoken with Winston Callaway's attorney. He's willing—eager, actually—to submit to testing. To establish that you and Winston are half-siblings."
"Why?" The question escaped before Emery could stop it. "Why would Winston cooperate after everything he did?"
"Because his attorney believes full cooperation is his only path to avoid real prison time,” Harlan said. "Winston's willing to testify against Callie in exchange for immunity on the conspiracy to commit murder charges. He's admitted to paying Harold Pemberton. He's admitted to the scheme to destroy your career, to funding the campaign to drive you out of Stone Bridge. Everything except the actual violence."
"So, he draws a line at murder but not at destroying someone's life." Emery heard the bitterness. She tasted it when she swallowed, and she didn’t give a damn.
"Apparently, that's where his conscience kicks in," Harlan said. "For what it's worth, his attorney claims Winston genuinely regrets how far things went."
“It doesn’t change what he did, or how complicit he was in the whole thing.” Devon leaned back, folding his arms, anger radiating from his muscles.
Emery was tired of carrying the weight of it all. Of the rage. Of the resentment. Of the fear. “And what about Callie?"
"Still in jail. Her family refused to post bail—apparently even the Callaways have limits. She's claiming innocence. However, her story has changed. Now she’s claiming she was trying to save you from Jim Webb. That someone else hired him. I’ve heard she’s hinting at some names, but I don’t know who.”
"That's bullshit, and I can gather she’s trying to shift the blame to Gabe.” Devon found Emery's hand under the table with his own, squeezing hard enough that she felt his frustration through his grip.
“We don’t need to concern ourselves with Callie,” Harlan said. “Jim Webb has rolled over completely in hopes of a reduced sentence. He's given detailed testimony about everything Callie hired him to do. The hit-and-run attempt. The shooting in the vineyard. The kidnapping. He's documented payments, shown text message exchanges, and provided a timeline that corroborates every single attack. This isn’t his first time heading to prison for being a hired man. He knows the system, and he knows how to play the game.” Harlan leaned forward. “All that matters is the DA has enough to take Callie to trial and is confident they’ll win. She’ll go to prison. No question."
“What about a plea deal?” Devon asked.
“That’s always a possibility, but the DA won’t take anything that doesn’t have prison time included,” Harlan said.
The knowledge should have brought relief. It should have felt like justice. Instead, it just felt heavy—the weight of all that hate, all that violence, all because Emery had committed the crime of being born.
"What about Jim?” Devon asked. "What kind of deal is he getting?"
"Unknown yet. That's up to the DA and ultimately the courts." Harlan closed his legal pad with a decisive snap. "But even with full cooperation, he's facing prison time. His endgame is to keep it as short as possible. This is his second offense, so that will be considered.”
