"There's always a next move. Even when it doesn't look like it." He pulled her closer. "You've come too far to lose now. The evidence is solid. Your testimony is solid. One motion from a desperate defense attorney isn't going to undo five years of work."
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to let go of the cold knot in her chest and trust that everything would work out the way it was supposed to.
But she'd learned a long time ago that things didn't always work out. That justice wasn't guaranteed. That people who did terrible things sometimes got away with them.
"Let's finish the tree," she said.
Christmas morning came soft and gray.
Lila woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone moving in the kitchen. She found Ronan standing at the counter, two mugs steaming beside the coffee maker, staring out the window at the inlet.
"You're up early."
"Habit." He handed her a mug without turning around. "I used to wake up at 0500 no matter where I was. Now I wake up at 0500 and have nowhere to be."
"You could go back to sleep."
"I could. I don't." He finally turned to look at her. His eyes moved to the coffee table, where the manila folder still sat. "Did you sleep?"
"Some."
"Liar."
"I slept enough." She took a sip of coffee. It was the good kind: strong and dark. "I don't want to talk about the trial today. I don't want to think about Warren or the motion or any of it. Just for today."
"Okay."
"I mean it. If I start spiraling, tell me to stop."
"I'll distract you with presents."
She almost smiled. "You got me presents?"
"Present. Singular." He reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator—a spot she couldn't reach without a chair—and pulled out a small, wrapped package. "It's not much. I don't know how to do this."
She took the package. The wrapping was uneven, the tape applied with more enthusiasm than skill. Inside was a small wooden box, hand-carved, with her initials on the lid.
"I found a guy in town who does custom work," Ronan said. "For your dad's things. The surveying notes, the documents. I thought you might want somewhere to keep them. Somewhere that isn't a filing cabinet or a federal evidence locker."
She opened the box. It was lined with dark blue velvet and had compartments of different sizes. The wood smelled like cedar.
"Ronan."
"If you don't like it?—"
"Stop." She looked up at him. Her eyes were stinging. "It's perfect. It's—" She couldn't finish.
"It's a box."
"It's a place to keep him." She set the box on the counter and pressed her hand flat against the lid. "After the trial, when they release his files, I'll have somewhere to put them. Somewhere that matters."
She went to the hall closet and retrieved a flat package wrapped in paper covered with cartoon reindeer.
"Your turn."
He unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a framed photograph—the cottage, taken from the dock, the string lights glowing on the porch, the live oak spreading its branches overhead.
"Sid took it," she said. "A few weeks ago, when you weren't home. I wanted you to have something to keep. Something that shows what this place looks like when you're not here to see it."
