Purpose. Absolute certainty that whatever it took, whoever I had to become, I would burn Harrow's world down until nothing remained but ash and truth.
The guard signalled that time was up. We both stood and pressed our hands against opposite sides of the glass, as close to contact as the barrier allowed.
“I'll come back,” I said. “After we finish this. After Harrow's destroyed and the truth is public record. I'll come back and we'll work out the appeal options.”
“Don't make promises you can't keep.”
“I'm not. I'm making promises I intend to keep regardless of the cost.” I held his gaze. “You didn't kill her. And I'm going to make sure everyone knows that.”
“Just be careful. Don't let this destroy you the way it destroyed me.”
“Too late for that. But maybe being destroyed is what it takes to see this through.” I picked the folder up from the floor. “Thank you. For trusting me with this.”
“Thank you for listening. For believing me.” His voice shook. “And Dom? Tell whoever's helping you that they're braver than they probably realise.”
“His name is Cal.” I stopped. Didn't know how to finish that sentence — what Cal was to me felt too complicated to summarise, too raw to name. “He's the reason we're going to win.”
“Then keep him close. People like that are rare.”
The guard moved to take Ethan back. I watched him go, the orange jumpsuit disappearing through doors I couldn't follow through, and felt something shift in my chest — not healing,not forgiveness for the system that had done this, just clarity. Absolute certainty about what came next.
I didn't go backto Ravenswood. Couldn't face Adrian or Noah, couldn't perform stable and competent when everything in me felt cracked open and reconstructed into something harder and less patient with pretending otherwise.
I went to Cal's flat instead. Parked badly, took the stairs because waiting for the lift felt impossible, and knocked on his door with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
He opened it still in home clothes, his face drawn with the exhaustion of whatever case he'd been working, those mismatched eyes widening slightly when he read whatever expression I was wearing.
“Dom? What?—”
I walked past him and into his flat, stood in the middle of the living space surrounded by his files and photographs and evidence boards and tried to remember how to breathe properly.
“Dom, what happened?”
“I saw Ethan.” The words came out rough. “My brother-in-law.”
Cal closed the door and moved closer without touching me yet. “What did he say?”
“He didn't kill her.” My voice broke on the last word.
“Dom—”
“I've spent three years hating the wrong person.” The tears came back harder than before, unstoppable, rolling past every defence I had. “She died trying to help people and I let them bury that truth under lies about violent husbands and tragicaccidents and all the bullshit designed to make people stop asking questions.”
Cal closed the distance and pulled me against him without hesitation, his arms wrapping around me with pressure that was grounding rather than restraining — solid and warm and steady when everything else felt like it was falling. I broke against him, quietly at first and then harder, my shoulders shaking, breath coming in gasps I couldn't control, all the grief and rage and guilt that had been compressed into tight controlled space for three years finally finding its way out.
He held me through it. Didn't tell me it was going to be alright. Didn't offer empty words about time healing or justice prevailing. Just held on while I fell apart, one hand moving to my hair, fingers threading through it in a slow and grounding gesture that said I'm here more clearly than words could have managed.
“She was good,” I said when I could speak again. “She was the best of us and they killed her and made everyone believe a lie.”
“I know.” His voice was quiet against my ear. “But we're going to fix it. We're going to make sure everyone knows the truth. Make sure she's remembered for who she really was instead of the way they tried to define her death.”
“It won't bring her back.”
“No. But it will mean she didn't die for nothing. It will mean Harrow pays for it and Ethan gets his life back and nobody else gets fed into that machine.” His arms tightened around me. “Her death will mean something, Dom. We'll make sure of it.”
I nodded against his shoulder and held onto him like he was the only solid thing in a world that had stopped making sense. “I can't do this alone anymore. Can't keep pretending I'm strong enough to carry all of it by myself.”
“You're not alone. You haven't been since you decided to work with me.” His fingers kept moving through my hair, carefuland deliberate. “Whatever comes next, we face it together. That's what partners means. That's what this is.”
I pulled back enough to meet his eyes and found them steady, certain, no hesitation and no doubt anywhere in them.
“Thank you,” I said. Voice rough. “For being here. For not running when I showed up like this.”
“Where else would I be?” His hands came up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away tears I hadn't realised were still falling. “You came to me. That means something. It means you trust me. And I'm not walking away from that.”
I kissed him — desperate and needy and more vulnerable than I'd let myself be in years. He kissed back anyway, gentle where I was desperate, solid where I was crumbling, and that was enough. For now, that was enough.
