"Good for you." She squeezes my shoulder. "You've earned some happiness."
The drive takes forever through whiteout conditions, my Subaru crawling along icy roads. Marc taught me winter driving—proper tires, emergency kit in the trunk, patience over speed. Other drivers would turn back. I know better now.
Whitewater Junction appears through the snow, a scattering of lights with mountains black beyond. I pull into our place, park beside Marc’s truck and kill my engine. He's out on the porch before I open my door, crossing to me in long strides.
"Road was worse than I thought," I say.
He doesn't answer, just pulls me close. His mouth finds mine, cold-chapped lips warming fast. The kiss tastes like coffee and home.
Inside, the cabin smells like venison stew and wood smoke. Marc's got dinner going in the slow cooker, bread warming in the oven. We shed our layers, stamp snow off our boots.
"How was your day?" I ask.
"Boring. Paperwork, budget meetings, training schedules." He ladles stew into bowls, sets them on the table. "Got a call from Calder this afternoon."
My pulse kicks up. "About?"
"The Marshal investigation. DOJ's following the communications Cara pulled from Haywood's devices, tracing payment routes and dead drop locations." He hands me a beer. "They've identified several more corrupt agents. Mid-level operatives, same compartmentalized structure Haywood described."
"Any closer to The Marshal?"
"Not yet. Whoever's running this network knows how to stay hidden." His jaw tightens. "But they're making progress. Every agent they flip gives them more pieces of the puzzle."
I think about Haywood, poisoned in federal custody before he could testify. The Marshal's reach extends into places that should have been secure. "You think we're safe here?"
"Safe as we can be." He crosses to me, tips my chin up with his thumb. "We're not high-value targets anymore. Haywood's dead, the evidence is already in DOJ's hands. Killing us won't stop the investigation."
"That's not exactly comforting."
"I know." He kisses my forehead. "But I'm not letting fear run our lives. We did what we set out to do. We exposed corruption, we got justice for the victims. The rest is DOJ's job."
Rebecca Macintosh called me recently with updates on the Aurora Covenant's work with survivors—counseling services, legal advocacy, job training programs. The organization is thriving, helping women rebuild their lives.
Jackie Nielsen's working at a coffee shop in Anchorage now, living in transitional housing. Rebecca says she's doing well, considering. I want to believe that, want to believe the nightmares fade, that trust comes back, that what happened doesn't have to be the only thing that defines her. She's alive. She's trying, and maybe that's enough.
We eat at the table. Wind rattles the windows outside, piling snow higher. Marc's reinstatement came with commendations he doesn't talk about, a pay raise he shrugs off.
I watch Marc across the table, the way firelight catches in his eyes. He looks settled, content.
"You ever think about leaving?" I ask. "Alaska, I mean. Going somewhere warmer, easier."
"You want to leave?"
"No." The answer comes fast, certain. "I just wonder if you do. If being here reminds you of everything that happened."
He sets down his spoon, considers. "It does. But Alaska's not just the bad memories. It's also this—coming home to you after a long day. Having something worth protecting." He reaches across the table, laces our fingers together. "I'm not running from where I live because corruption tried to take root here. I'm staying to make sure it doesn't happen again."
I lean into him, knowing he won't budge on this any more than he budged on going after Haywood.
"Besides," he adds, "you've got a good job at Palmer. The commute's rough, but manageable. And Whitewater Junction suits you."
It does. I love the quiet, the space, the mountains rising sharp against the sky. Palmer felt temporary, a place to land while figuring out next steps. This feels like putting down roots.
"Think we'll catch The Marshal eventually?" I ask.
"Eventually, yeah. Might take months, might take years. But someone that powerful always slips up. Gets arrogant, trusts the wrong person, leaves a trail." He squeezes my hand. "DOJ's got resources now. Evidence, witnesses, political will to see this through. And Harlow and the task force are still working it, making sure the investigation doesn't get buried. The Marshal's days are numbered."
"Until then?"
