“We already are,” she whispers.
Before I can say more, Brandon bursts through the back door, his voice slicing through the warmth of the yard. “You need to see this. Now.”
We hurry inside. The television is already on, the blue glow flickering across the living room. A breaking news banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
"Federal authorities confirm that a vessel registered to Congressman Jackson Rhoades was intercepted in international waters earlier this week. The Speaker’s body has been recovered. Mrs. Delia Rhoades remains missing."
The anchor’s voice is clinical, almost detached. "Preliminary reports indicate the yacht had been at sea for several days. Officials declined to comment on the cause of death but confirmed the FBI had been actively pursuing Rhoades in connection with multiple felony investigations, including allegations of child abuse, obstruction of justice, and financial crimes."
No theatrics. No pirates. No sensational gore. Just the cold language of federal jurisdiction.
The room is silent. Kelly’s fingers find Andi’s hand without looking.
The anchor adds, "Sources indicate sealed indictments were imminent at the time of Rhoades’ disappearance."
And that’s it. No redemption arc. No courtroom showdown. Just an end.
I watch Andi carefully. Her face doesn’t show triumph—only release. But I expect clarity and celebration to fill me too. Instead, my chest feels strangely hollow, and not just from relief. The news cycles through in the background, but all I hear is a quiet internal echo: is this all there is?
I see Kelly slowly turn to Andi, tears slipping down her cheeks, quiet and unhurried. "He can’t hurt anyone now," she whispers.
Andi pulls her close. "No, sweetheart," she says. "He can’t."
There’s grief in that hug. Grief for what happened. Grief for what never will. Grief for the justice that will never get its full reckoning.
When the others drift back outside, giving them space, I linger in the doorway. Kelly finally steps back, wiping her face. She manages a small smile. "I’m okay," she says.
She isn’t, not fully. But she’s closer. She heads outside, where Alicia immediately wraps an arm around her shoulders. Kelly leans in, accepting the comfort.
That’s the real victory.
Andi hasn’t moved. She stands in the kitchen, staring at the blank television screen long after the broadcast ends.
I step behind her. "Talk to me."
She inhales slowly. "I thought it would feel bigger," she admits. "Louder. Like some cosmic explosion of justice."
"And?"
"It just feels… quiet."
Justice is rarely cinematic. It’s procedural. And sometimes incomplete for those who longed for it.
She turns to face me, her eyes red but steady. "Luke."
"Yes, baby?"
"Is it really over now? Can I finally breathe without waiting for the next blow to appear out of thin air?"
She speaks the words softly, but they hit me like a freight train. All the years she’s been on her own, alone and afraid, without the love of her family to sustain her, are behind her now.
I want to reassure her, but the questions churn in my own head. With Rhoades gone, some lines finally feel uncrossable again. Yet, in the quiet, an ache lingers. Something about this ending does not settle entirely, and for me, it runs deeper than fear. For most of my life, fighting was how I found purpose. But ever since I sent in mypaperwork to reactivate my psychologist license, I've felt a fault line splitting me in two.
Part of me knows I am more than fists, that I want to build something beyond pain. I should celebrate the intended change and take pride in moving toward a place where I can help heal. And yet, tonight, the truth is tangled. The fighter in me wants one more round, one more clean confrontation. The healer is supposed to accept surrender, release, and peace. I tell myself the future will make that easier, but I wonder if it will. I wonder how I will stand in the ring and at a kid’s side, reconciling both hungers—the urge to break and the urge to mend. How long before the expectations of both grind against each other?
"It’s over, baby. You don’t have to worry about them anymore. Your family is right here, and we love you. We have our problems, sure, but we have each other’s backs when it counts. That means we have yours, come what may."
I lean down and press my forehead to hers. For a moment, time stands still as we let go of the weight we’ve carried for so long, but even as I promise Andi safety, I sense the tension growing between who I was and who I am trying to become.
