“Yes.” His arm tightened around her. “We did what we went looking to do. We found the truth. We protected it. We made sure it couldn’t be buried again.”
She leaned her head against his chest. “Then she can finally rest.”
The words settled between them, heavy but not painful. Not anymore.
“Eleanor spent her last days trying to make sure her story wouldn’t disappear,” Jack said quietly. “Now it won’t. Her name is in court records. Her evidence is in federal custody. Her family’s future is secure. There’s nothing left for her to fight.”
Annie nodded, her fingers curling into his shirt. “No more running. No more hiding. No more waiting.”
“Exactly,” he said. “The case is closed.”
They stood there for a moment, not speaking, letting the stillness do what it needed to do. When Annie finally looked up at him, her eyes were clear in a way he hadn’t seen since before all of this began.
“I love you, Jack Calloway.”
“I love you too, Annie Calloway,” he answered, the name still new and right on his tongue. “For the rest of our lives.”
Only then did he lead her back toward the house, toward the light and warmth and the ordinary, extraordinary future waiting on the other side of the door.
Epilogue
March 3, 1927
Fairview, Tennessee
The house was finally quiet.
Not the brittle silence of emptiness, but the softer kind—one Eleanor had learned to treasure. The kind made of sleeping children and banked fires and lamps turned low. Of the faint ticking of the mantel clock and the distant whisper of wind through the trees beyond the windows.
Night had settled fully over the hills, cloaking the Blackwood estate in shadow. Clouds drifted across the moon, leaving the grounds in alternating washes of pale light and darkness.
Eleanor stood at the foot of the narrow staircase leading to the second floor, one hand resting against the banister, the other curved protectively over her belly. The baby shifted beneath herpalm, a slow, rolling movement that brought both comfort and ache.
“Hush now,” she whispered, though there was no one to hear her. “Mama’s here.”
She had just finished putting the girls to bed.
Mary had fallen asleep first, thumb tucked beneath her cheek, curls fanned across the pillow. Joy had fought longer, her small hand clinging to Eleanor’s nightdress, her questions tumbling one after another until exhaustion finally claimed her.
“Will you stay till morning?”
Eleanor had smoothed her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll always be near.”
Now they slept, unaware of the storm of thoughts that would not let their mother rest.
Eleanor turned away from the staircase and moved slowly down the hallway, careful with each step. Her body felt heavier at night. Not merely with child, but with something deeper. A pressure behind the ribs. A weariness that sleep did not touch.
Tonight more than most.
Richard’s school friends were staying in the east wing—three boys, nearly grown, loud with false bravado and restless energy. Thomas had insisted they be made welcome. “Good for Richard,” he had said. “Keeps him occupied.”
Occupied.
The word tightened something in her chest.
They had taken supper earlier, filling the long dining room with careless laughter and clattering silverware. Eleanor had sat at the far end of the table, smiling when expected, listening without hearing, counting the minutes until she could retreat upstairs.
She had watched Richard from beneath her lashes, and he had barely looked at her—and that frightened her more than his attention ever had.
