But I do. I have to.
Back in the kitchen, Luna’s waiting with a canvas bag full of food—banana bread, sandwiches, little containers packed and neatly labeled.
She doesn’t say anything at first, just hands it to me and opens her arms.
I fall into her hug.
“Don’t worry about anything here,” she murmurs.
Noah steps into the doorway, keys already in hand. “I’ll drive.”
I don’t argue. I can’t. My hands are trembling, my chest tight, every thought moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
“Thank you,” I say, because I know—right now—I couldn’t trust myself behind the wheel even if I tried. “Thanks, both of you. For staying with me and hanging out with the kids and for—everything.”
Luna chuckles, the sound a little watery. “Anytime. But seriously, that’s what sisters are for. Just go get him, okay?”
“I will.”
And then we’re out the door.
THE DRIVE
ASHLEY
Noah enters the address into the GPS of his rental car, and the calm, mechanical voice tells us it’ll be just under an hour to the Charles River Federal Detention Facility.
An hour feels both merciful and unbearable.
After I told Beckett to move out, I’d still known where he was. We’d held up an illusion for the boys, him stopping by to tuck them in when he could.
But even though I’d pushed him to the edge of my life, I knew he was there.
This… is different.
Noah’s hands stay steady on the wheel as we barrel along the highway, moving toward the city instead of away from it, and I watch as the miles tick down.
Traffic on the other side is already backing up—the afternoon commute starting early—but our stretch is pretty clear. Buildings slide past: a Dunkin’ Donuts near an exit, long concrete warehouses, gray sound barriers. It’s all so normal, even though there’s nothing normal about this day.
This drive.
“You doing okay?” Noah glances away from the highway for just a second.
“Yes?” I answer. And then, “Not really.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but stays silent.
“What?” I ask.
He waits a few beats before answering.
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he says carefully. “But Rocky thinks the fact that Beckett was already in contact with an FBI agent… that matters. That has to mean something.”
“But they arrested him,” I say.
“Yeah.” Noah checks his mirror, clicks on his blinker, and eases into the next lane. “That doesn’t automatically mean the worst. Rocky could be wrong—but either way, I guess we’ll find out soon.”
“Yeah.”
