I laugh. It surprises me, the sound bubbling up from somewhere I thought was empty.
Cade pulls me to my feet and wraps his arms around me. We stand there for a long moment, just holding each other, breathing together.
"I love you," I say quietly. "I don't think I've said that yet. But I do. I love you, Cade Marshall."
His arms tighten. "I love you too, Natalie Pierce. More than I know how to say."
"Then don't say it." I pull back and look up at him. "Show me."
His smile is slow and warm and full of promise.
"That," he says, "I can do."
EPILOGUE
CADE
ONE YEAR LATER
The greenhouse smells like exploded lavender bombs.
I'm repotting calendula seedlings when I hear Natalie's car pull up the drive. The dogs beat me to the door, tails wagging, and I wipe the dirt from my hands as I follow them out to the porch.
She's wearing the sundress she bought in town last month, the yellow one that makes her skin glow. Her hair is longer now, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. She's gained weight in all the right places, her curves filled out from a year of good food and better sleep.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"How'd the meeting go?" I ask as she climbs the porch steps.
"Kevin took the plea deal." Her smile is radiant. "Twelve years. No possibility of parole for eight."
The tension I didn't know I was carrying releases from my shoulders. We knew it was coming. Vivian's prosecutor friends had built an airtight case, and Kevin's lawyers had been pushinghim toward a deal for months. But hearing it confirmed feels like the final page of a chapter we've been trying to close.
"It's over," I say.
"It's over." She walks into my arms and presses her face against my chest. "Really, truly over."
I hold her for a long moment, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs. A year ago, she stumbled onto my property bleeding and terrified. Now she's standing in my arms, healthy and whole and free.
Some miracles take time.
"I have something for you," she says, pulling back.
"Yeah?"
She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small, wrapped package. "Happy anniversary."
I blink. "Our anniversary isn't for another two weeks."
"I know. But I couldn't wait." She presses the package into my hands, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Open it."
I tear off the paper to find a plain white box. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is a tiny pair of knitted booties.
Green. The color of my eyes.
My brain short circuits.
"Natalie."
