Kelly trembles in my arms, clinging to me as if she might disappear if she lets go. The house is filled with the distant wail of sirens, the flash of blue and red lights painting the walls, the low murmur of police radios as Detective Burns arrives.
She kneels beside Kelly, her voice soft and steady. “Where did you get the gun?”
“I took it,” Kelly whispers. “From their house.”
Burns nods, absorbing the answer. She issues a BOLO for Jackson and Delia, stations units outside, and assures usthat Kelly isn’t being treated as a suspect. “Context matters,” she says quietly.
Hours later, after statements, photographs, and evidence collection, the house is quiet again. Kelly sleeps in the guest room, finally at peace after a long shower and borrowed clothes.
Luke and I sit in the living room, the silence between us heavy with everything that’s happened. I stare at the hallway, my mind replaying every moment.
“They escalated,” Luke says finally, his voice rough.
“Yes.” My mind is still racing to accept all the events of tonight. Nothing seems real while everything feels veritable.
“They’re desperate.”
“Yes.” I let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline finally ebbing. “They’re losing, and they know it. When they lose in the public eye, their power is stripped away. Their friends disappear back under the rocks from where they crawled. Their network will collapse on them.”
But like any injured animal that’s backed into a corner, that network will come out fighting first.
By morning, the sports blogs will call it a routine review.
By afternoon, they’ll call it a controversy.
By nightfall, someone will leak her name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LUKE
The fire pit at my parents’ house has become a sanctuary—neutral ground where the world’s noise fades and we can simply be family. The air carries the scent of wood smoke and the faint sweetness of toasted marshmallows. Laughter drifts across the yard, mingling with the fire’s crackle.
Kelly stands near my mom at the picnic table, carefully setting down a tray of food as if it might shatter. Two weeks ago, she was trembling in Andi’s arms, a gun still warm in her hand. Tonight, she’s arguing with my dad about the proper way to roast a marshmallow—lightly toasted or set ablaze. The debate is gentle, almost playful,but I can see the way she glances at my mom for approval, the way she straightens when my dad laughs at her joke.
Progress doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, in small arguments about sugar and the easy comfort of belonging.
When Kelly finishes setting the tray down, she scans the yard, her eyes searching for reassurance. Andi meets her gaze and opens her arms. Kelly goes to her without hesitation, melting into Andi’s embrace. This time there’s laughter—a soft, surprised sound as Andi spins her before setting her down. It’s not the desperate grip from that night. It’s the hug of a teenager who’s starting to believe she gets to stay.
Inside, Mom and Dad are hunched over paperwork with the attorney, their voices low and serious. They’re pursuing foster placement first, then adoption. Detective Burns ensured Kelly’s statement was recorded with care and flagged as protected testimony. Kelly is no longer just a runaway girl with a gun. She’s a witness. A survivor. That matters.
It’s been fourteen days since the night Rhoades broke into our house. Fourteen days of media chaos, legal filings, patrol cars parked outside, and rumors swirling about Rhoades fleeing the country. And fourteen days of Andi pretending she isn’t waiting for the next blow.
I slide behind her at the fire and wrap my arms around her waist. She leans back into me, her fingers tracing absent patterns along my forearm, grounding herself—and me. The warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing—all of it anchors me in the present.
I used to think marriage was just a symbol. Now I understand it as something more: a lifeline. I almost lost her. That changes a man.
“I’m serious,” I murmur into her hair. “Vegas. Tomorrow.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my chest. “You’ve suggested Vegas every day this week.”
“I’ll keep asking until you say yes.”
She twists to look up at me. There’s love in her eyes, but also caution. “We’re not done yet,” she says quietly. “Not legally.”
She’s right. The Department of Justice handed the Rhoades case to the FBI three days after Kelly’s statement. Financial subpoenas. Search warrants. Offshore accounts frozen. The youth center review was abruptly “paused pending outcome of federal investigation.” Funny how that works—when the FBI shows up, boards get braver.
I kiss the side of Andi’s head. “We’re stronger together.”
