"You're welcome."
"And I'm glad—" He stops. When he speaks again, his voice has gone serious. "I'm glad you're here. That this—whatever this is—exists."
I lift my head to look at him. In the darkness, his face is all shadows and planes, the scar through his eyebrow a pale line. He looks younger like this. Unguarded. Real.
"It's something," I tell him. "I don't know what yet. But it's something."
"Something." He tests the word. Nods. "I can work with something."
He kisses me again—soft, sweet, a promise more than a demand. Then he tucks me against his chest and pulls the blanket over us both.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "I've got you."
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I believe it.
I close my eyes and let go.
NINETEEN
EPILOGUE — FULL CIRCLE
EVIE
One Year Later
The daycare smellslike finger paint and graham crackers.
I stand in the doorway of my classroom—my classroom, still strange after eight months—and watch the controlled chaos unfold. Tiny humans swarm around activity stations, their voices a constant hum of excitement and occasional conflict. In the corner, two four-year-olds are negotiating the terms of a crayon-sharing agreement. Near the window, a five-year-old is explaining to his captive audience why dinosaurs are better than dragons. At the art table, a little girl with pigtails is painting something that might be a horse or might be a spaceship.
With preschoolers, you never really know.
In the teachers' lounge across the hall, the small wall-mounted TV hums with the midday news, the volume low but the headlines unmistakable: FORMER SENATORHARMON SENTENCED TO LIFE.
I catch a glimpse of the former Senator being led away in shackles, his "marble smile" finally shattered. The broadcast scrolls through the highlights of the "Bureau Cleanup"—the systemic purging of the Sacramento field office and the federal indictments of the agents who sold their souls to the Consortium.
It took a year of depositions and a trial that gripped the state, but the cage has been dismantled from the top down. I don't linger on the screen. The monsters are behind bars, and for the first time in my life, I don't need to watch the news to feel safe.
"Miss Evie!" A small body crashes into my legs. Marcus, age four, perpetually sticky, possessor of the world's most infectious giggle. "Rosie's mom is here!"
"I see that." I ruffle his hair and look up to find Sera in the doorway, looking harried but happy. "Hey, you. Early pickup?"
"Birthday party prep." Sera rolls her eyes. "Rosie has very specific opinions about the placement of streamers. I've been informed that last year's configuration was 'not optimal.'"
"She's six—seven. Where does she learn words like 'optimal'?"
"She's been spending too much time with Mitzy."
That tracks. Rosie has adopted Guardian HRS headquarters as her second home, and the operatives have adopted her right back. CJ taught her chess last month. Angel let her sit in the helicopter cockpit. And Mitzy has been teaching her words that a seven-year-old definitely doesn't need to know, despite Sera's protests.
"AUNT EVIE!"
The blur that launches itself at me is significantly taller than a year ago, but the enthusiasm is unchanged. Rosie wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes with the ferocious strength of a child who loves without reservation.
"Hey, birthday girl." I hug her back just as fiercely. "Ready for the big day?"
"I'm going to be SEVEN." She says it like seven is a mythical achievement, a summit most mortals never reach. "That's almost double digits."
"Math checks out."
