Plates are stacked. Counters wiped down. The dishwasher hums a steady rhythm in the kitchen, a familiar chord of normalcy that slows us all down after a long, emotional day.
The lights are dim in the living room, soft and golden. A candle flickers on the coffee table, throwing slow-moving shadows against the walls.
I sink deeper into the cushions, legs curled under me, a half-full glass of wine in my hand. Beckett’s thigh rests against mine, warm and solid. Luna’s stretched out on the rug, her legs draped over Noah’s lap. Mom and Babs are in matching recliners, both looking far too comfortable to move, both sipping their own cups of decaf.
We’re all here, just letting things settle.
After a call with Agent Sugarbaker earlier, the plan is officially in place: we move forward with the story that Beckett was one of several financial advisors who flipped at the last minute to help the investigation. Limited involvement. Clean enough to talk about, vague enough to keep him protected.
It’s not a lie—but it’s not the whole truth either.
Just enough to take the pressure off, to keep a target off Beckett’s back.
To give us some version of peace.
The headlines are everywhere—anonymous whistleblower, insider informant, and even a few comparisons to Deep Throat. But there’s no name, no photo. The FBI’s press release keeps it simple: coordinated efforts between federal agencies, thanks to diligent investigation.
That’s how it needs to stay.
At first, I was concerned about the kids knowing—about what Mom and Luna had told them while I was away. But…
After everything we went through last year—the confusion, the long absences, the tension—I believe in my heart that it’s important for them to know the truth. Something to take the sting out of what happened at the port back in Los Angeles.
I don’t want them to be afraid, and I want them to know that both Beckett and I trust them. Because we do.
We’re a family, and that trust goes both ways now.
They went down easy tonight—tired from the day, from the sugar, from too much screen time and the relief of seeing their dad again. Blakey had Beckett check under the bed twice. Max wanted the hall light on. We did both. No arguments. Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it.
Now, I’m just… enjoying this moment. The comfort of being surrounded by people who love and support us. It’s like a giant hug. No one’s rushing. Everything's out in the open.
And we made it through.
Mom sets her coffee on the side table and glances at Babs. “We probably ought to be getting home soon, right?”
Babs lets out a sigh but nods. “Yeah, yeah. I suppose.”
“You sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Noah asks, reaching for his keys.
Mom waves him off. “We’re only a few miles away. We’ll be fine.”
She stands and then leans over to kiss my cheek. “You’re going to be okay, sweetheart.”
I nod, the lump in my throat too thick to answer properly. But I believe her.
We’re going to be okay.
After Mom and Babs are gone, Noah leans back into the couch, stretches an arm behind Luna. “So,” he says casually, “how would you feel about Paris in the morning?”
Beckett slaps his forehead. “Oh, hell. You two are supposed to be on your honeymoon.” His face twists with guilt, and I can see the weight of everything pressing down again. He still blames himself.
I’m going to have to work on that—remind him he didn’t cause the storm. He got caught in it. And in the end, he did the right thing.
Luna sees it too. “Hey,” she says. “You’d do the same for us.” And then she slides her hand into Noah’s. “And we’re not about to pass up quality time with our favorite nephews, right?”
“You mean your only nephews?” I say.
“For now. Are you sure you don’t have an extra little bun in your oven…?”
