I tried to speak, but my throat felt scraped raw from the breathing tube they must have removed at some point. Matt reached for a cup with a straw, gently holding it to my lips. The water felt miraculous against my parched tissues, each painful swallow worth the relief it brought.
"Tommy?" I managed finally, the word barely audible.
"He's safe," Matt assured me, his hand returning to mine. "No serious physical injuries. He got lucky that the bullet didn’t hit any vital organs. They're keeping him for observation and psychological assessment, but he's going to be okay." His voice caught slightly. "Thanks to you."
I closed my eyes briefly, allowing that knowledge to sink in. When I opened them again, Matt was still watching me, his expression a complex mixture of relief, exhaustion, and something deeper that I wasn't ready to name.
"Sarah?" The question scratched its way out of my damaged throat.
"In custody. Maximum security at the psychiatric wing." His jaw tightened. "They found the shrine in her house, just like you said.Everything. Juan made sure all the evidence got into the right hands." A grim smile touched his lips. "The FBI director himself called to apologize for how they handled the case."
I absorbed this information slowly, my mind still struggling through the fog of pain medication and trauma. Vindication should have felt triumphant, but in that moment, all I felt was bone-deep weariness.
"It's over," Matt continued, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of my hand. "The nightmare is finally over, Eva. You were right all along, and now everyone knows it."
I managed a weak nod, not trusting my voice for more words. The simple act of consciousness had already drained what little strength I had regained. But before I surrendered again to the waiting darkness, I needed to know one more thing.
"Tommy," I whispered. "What happens to him now?"
Matt's expression softened. "Let's worry about that after you heal. Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you well." He leaned closer, his lips brushing my forehead in a touch so gentle it might have been imagined. "Rest. I'll be here when you wake up.”
Chapter 57
The soundof rapid footsteps in the hallway pulled me from the edge of sleep. After two weeks in this room, I'd learned to distinguish between the measured pace of nurses doing their rounds and the hurried stride of someone with purpose. These footsteps were different—eager, almost frantic, accompanied by a younger voice being gently shushed. My heart quickened before my mind fully registered why. Then Christine burst through the doorway, her red hair—so like mine before the silver took over—flying behind her like a banner. Angel followed more cautiously, her young eyes visibly relieved as she saw me propped up against the pillows, awake and alive despite the monitors and tubes that marked the seriousness of my condition.
"Mom!" Christine's voice broke on that single syllable as she rushed to my bedside. At nineteen, my second-oldest had always been the emotional one, wearing her heart like an external organ for all to see. Now she hovered over me, clearly desperate to embrace me but terrified of causing pain. Her eyes cataloged the visible bandages, the IV lines, the monitors with their steady readouts.
"It's okay," I whispered, opening my arms despite the protest from my wounds. "Just be gentle."
Christine carefully leaned down, wrapping her arms around me with the delicacy of someone handling spun glass. I felt her tears against my neck as she pressed her face close. "We thought—" she began, but couldn't finish.
"They said you killed people," Christine whispered against my hair, her voice so low I almost missed it. "On the news. Every day. They said you were dangerous."
I closed my eyes briefly, imagining my daughters watching news reports declaring their mother a murderer, a fugitive. The thought caused a pain deeper than any bullet could inflict. "I know," I said. "But it wasn't true. None of it was true."
Christine straightened, wiping tears from her cheeks with quick, impatient gestures. "Grandma said that from the beginning. She told everyone who would listen that it was all lies."
Angel sat at the foot of my bed, while my teenage son, Alex, remained in the corner, looking shy yet concerned.
Matt, who had remained quietly in the corner since the kids’ arrival, cleared his throat softly. "I'm going to grab some coffee," he said, moving toward the door. "Give you all some time."
Our eyes met as he passed the bed, his gaze conveying volumes—tenderness, understanding, the promise of return. I nodded slightly, acknowledging both his tact in giving us privacy and the unspoken connection that had deepened through our shared ordeal.
"Thank you," Christine said to him, the words carrying a weight of gratitude beyond this small courtesy.
When the door closed behind him, Christine finally released the tight control she'd been maintaining. "They wouldn't let us see you," she said, anger and hurt threading through her voice. "For almost two weeks. Even after they said you were innocent, they still wouldn't let us come."
"The doctors wanted to make sure I was strong enough," I explained, gesturing for both girls and Alex to sit in the chairs beside the bed. "And there were still some legal complications to sort out."
"When can you come home?" Angel asked, leaning forward with the focused intensity she'd inherited from me. "Grandma is takingcare of Ellie. She has everything ready—she's moved into the guest room so she can help with your recovery."
The question struck me with unexpected force. Home. The concept seemed both achingly familiar and strangely distant after weeks of running, hiding, fighting for my life. "Soon," I promised. "The doctors want me to start physical therapy first, make sure I can manage basic movements. Then I will be coming home."
I met her eyes, then Christine's, seeing in both the desperate need for reassurance that some things in their upended world were still certain. Alex came closer and held my hand. I rubbed it gently.
"I promise," I said, pouring every ounce of conviction I could muster into those two words. "We're going to be okay."
For the first time since they'd entered the room, I saw their shoulders relax slightly, the weight they'd been carrying visibly lightening. It wasn't everything—recovery, for all of us, would be a long road with many challenges ahead. But it was a beginning, a step back toward the light after weeks of darkness. And for now, that was enough.
