Her eyes shine, but her voice is steady. “I know.”
“And he’s not hurting you, either. You’re mine.”
Her breath catches. “Okay.”
We sit like that long enough for the house to remember what normal sounds like—appliances humming, heater cycling, the soft tap of rain beginning on the windows. Every so often I glance at the door camera feed and then force myself to put the phone down again. The red dots hold. The sensors blink their tiny reassurance.
Eventually, Oakley’s head tips onto my shoulder. I shift, easing us all into something that looks like comfort if you squint. Aubrey’s hand curls in my shirt. Oakley’s fingers stay threaded through mine even as sleep pulls at her. I let the weight anchor me.
The storm can pound and it can posture, but inside this circle—this couch, this room, this family—I draw a line.
No one crosses it.
Not again. Not ever.
Chapter 36
Oakley Kate
It’s been several days since the flashing lights faded from our street, since Lieutenant Reid Cason walked me through the statement line by line while Silas stood behind me like a wall that might finally crumble if anyone so much as looked at me wrong.
And yet here I am, standing in the kitchen without the boot, without crutches, balancing on my own two feet. My ankle protests, a dull ache more stubborn than sharp, but it’s mine again. The freedom of it feels foreign, almost fragile.
The house hums around me: dishwasher running, furnace clicking on because I’m cold-natured and can’t stand when it drops below seventy degrees, the low thump of a hockey game on the living room television. Aubrey’s laughter spills over the couch every few minutes, high and bright as she and Jett discuss what drinks they should add to The Write Brew’s holiday drink list, and I cling to that sound like proof it is. We survived something real.
Silas is in his element—half in, half out of the house. One second, he’s checking the camera feeds on his phone; the next,he’s at the porch replacing batteries in the sensor lights. I can hear him muttering under his breath about voltage and coverage angles.
He hasn’t really stopped moving since the night it happened.
I pour coffee and step carefully toward the door, bracing one hand on the counter as I test my balance. “You know,” I call, “most people install one security camera, not an entire Fort Knox package.”
He glances up from the steps, sunlight catching in his hair. “Most people don’t have my father showing up uninvited.”
Point for him. Still.
“You’re allowed to breathe, Si.”
“I am breathing.”
“Uh-huh.” I sip my coffee. “Is that what you call sprinting between door sensors?”
He gives me that tight half-smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You’re supposed to stay off your feet.”
I lift my heel an inch, testing the stretch. “Doctor cleared me for light walking. This counts.”
“You’re pushing it.”
“And you’re hovering.”
The air between us tightens—not sharp, but thick—heavy with everything we haven’t said since the police left.
He wipes his hands on his sweatshirt and leans against the post. “I’m just trying to keep you both safe.”
“I know.” My voice softens before I can stop it. “But safe and sealed off aren’t the same thing.”
By afternoon, the tension settles over the house like one of those weighted blankets, and the quiet makes the walls feel too open.
Silas is on the phone in the office, talking to a lawyer. I hear pieces of his conversation—restraining order, documentedincident, pending court date. Each phrase is a piece of the puzzle in getting back to normal. Necessary but still claustrophobic.
