Epilogue
EPILOGUE
NICK
2 months later
The world feels quieter now, though the echoes of the last few months still hum in the back of my mind. It's been two months since the accident—since the night I had to pull Nate out of that pit at Monty's.
Two months since everything came to a head, and in some ways, it feels like years have passed between then and now.
I'm standing on the porch of Kat's place, the same one that's started to feel like home in a way few places ever have. She's inside, likely re-arranging the kitchen for the third time this week, humming to herself like nothing in the world could shake her. And for once, maybe nothing can. We're in a good place, her and me. A steady rhythm that feels like it could go the distance.
Kat has decided to stick around Eden for a while longer, and I'm not sure I've ever been so grateful for someone staying put. She mentioned opening up a private practice here for the disadvantaged who don't have health care. That woman's heart could light up the darkest corners of this town.
But even with her here and the storm finally feeling like it's passed, my thoughts still drift. Back to the night it all changed. The smell of sweat and stale desperation in that drug den haunts me—metallic and sour, like hope left to spoil. Nate slumped on a half inflated mattress, barely recognizable as the brilliant kid whose music could make time stand still. His fingers, usually dancing across guitar strings or piano keys, lay limp and blue-tinged against the filthy floor. Remembering what it was like dragging him out of that hellhole, my chest constricts with a familiar ache.
Not again.
The words pulse through me like a second heartbeat.
Not him.
Not when I know what he could become if he just gave himself the chance.
Nate and I have been through a lot these past few months. It started slow—conversations that lingered past closing time at Sonder, his eyes always restless, always watching the door like he was waiting for someone who never arrives. Working side by side, I watched his mind constantly creating, constantly worrying about everyone but himself.
Then it turned into something deeper—not as a replacement father figure even though his was never much of a father in the first place. But as someone who refuses to walk away when things get hard.
I saw a kid trying so hard to hold everything together, protecting everyone else while drowning in his own pain. He reminds me of my brother, not in the superficial ways people might assume. It's not about replacing what I've lost. It's about recognizing that same raw talent, that same fire that could either illuminate the world or reduce it to ashes.
I did what I had to do.
I got him out of Eden.
Away from the noise and the shadows that kept trying to pull him under. Because sometimes the only way to find yourself is to get lost somewhere new and face the demons without the familiar distractions, or in his case, the influences slowly poisoning him from the inside out.
I pulled every string I could, set him up with a job at one of my wineries in Europe. Something quiet and steady in a small Spanish town where sunlight spills over ancient stone walls and the air smells of salt and possibility.
A place where he could breathe. I told him to take time, figure himself out, and start living for himself instead of surviving for everyone else. I even nudged him toward the music. Hell, I all but pushed him. Because I've heard what that kid can do with a guitar and a pen. I saw the way people stopped mid-conversation when he played on opening night, like he was tapping into something universal and true. That kind of talent doesn't come along often, and I refuse to let it get buried under this town and his family's expectations.
And for once, he didn't argue. He just nodded, eyes glassy but determined, and I knew then that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally seen himself through someone else's eyes. Seen what I'd been trying to tell him all along.
Now he's over there, somewhere in the rolling hills of the town that changed my life many years ago, working the vineyards during the day and playing gigs at night in little bars where nobody knows his name or his story.
I get the occasional update—a text here, a grainy photo or sound bite of a melody he's playing around with—and each one feels like proof that sometimes, faith in someone pays off. He's still got a long road ahead, but he's walking it, one step at a time, finding his way back to himself.
As for Nora, she's thriving in London. She boarded the plane with a spark in her eye I haven't seen since before the accident. She's chasing her dreams, the ones Nate secretly believed in enough to submit that scholarship application behind her back. The irony isn't lost on me—Nate, drowning in his own mess, still managed to throw her a lifeline. It's just who he is, even when he's breaking apart. Always thinking of others first.
Always seeing the best in everyone but himself.
I look out over the quiet Eden street, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the lawn. This town has been a lot of things to a lot of people.
A sanctuary, a prison, a turning point.
For me, it's been all three. But as I stand here, the warm breeze carrying the scent of impending summer, I know it's also been something else.
It's been home.
For better or worse, Eden has a way of leaving its mark on you. Of getting under your skin and staying there. And while part of me wonders if Nate will ever find his way back here, another part knows that, no matter where he goes, this place—these people—will always be with him. Because that's the thing about family. It's not just blood or proximity. It's the people you fight for, the ones you refuse to give up on, even when they've given up on themselves. It's about seeing the best in someone even when they're at their worst.
I won't ever give up on Nate.
I couldn't then, and I won't now. Not when I see so much of myself in his struggles, not when I know what he could become if he just gives himself the chance.
Kat steps out onto the porch, her smile warm and familiar, pulling me back to the present. She's been my rock through all of this, understanding without judgment, supporting without pushing. The sunlight catches in her hair, turning ordinary brown into a tapestry of amber and gold.
"You okay?" she asks, her voice soft but grounded. Her eyes—those eyes that see through every wall I've ever built—search mine with quiet concern.
I nod, sliding an arm around her waist, drawing strength from the solid warmth of her.
"Yeah," I say, and for the first time in a long time, I mean it.
Life doesn't always go the way we plan. It's messy, unpredictable, and downright unfair at times. But it's also beautiful in its chaos. And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that sometimes, the hardest roads lead to the most unexpected places.
I'm lost in these thoughts when my phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at the screen, and my stomach tightens, a familiar knot of dread and anticipation.
It's from Danny, the one guy I trust with my life and probably one of the only cops who refuses to be bought in this town.
Danny
Dead end.
I reread the message like it might change if I stare long enough, like the truth I'm looking for might suddenly appear between the lines.
A hit-and-run. That's all we know officially.
No license plate, no witnesses, just the aftermath. It's been months, and still no answers. Danny's been keeping tabs on it for me—or maybe for himself, since he hates loose ends almost as much as I do. But every lead we've chased has fizzled out like smoke in the wind. And yet, something doesn't sit right.
Call it instinct or experience, but I can't shake the feeling that this wasn't random. The timing, the location—it all fits too neatly for coincidence, but the evidence doesn't connect. Not yet, anyway.
But I've got time.
And if there's one thing I'm good at, it's being patient. Because some truths take time to surface, and some secrets need to be dragged into the light.
And I plan to do exactly that.
For Nate. For Nora.
It's what family does.
Kat steps closer to me, her smile lighting up every fiber of my being. She leans in and kisses me with the kind of familiarity that still makes my heart skip.
"You sure you're okay?" she asks, her voice laced with that gentle concern that's become her trademark.
"I definitely am now," I say, placing a soft kiss atop her head. "Have you heard from Nora and Ol? They both settled?"
Kat beams, her eyes bright with maternal pride.
"Nora sent me pictures yesterday of her and Camilla on the London Eye. She looks happy." Her voice softens with wonder. "And Ol and Mia may have found an apartment together. God, when did my babies become full grown adults?"
"They'll forever be babies in your eyes, even when they're forty and have kids of their own," I smile, watching the emotions play across her face.
"Oh don't say that. I'm not ready to be a grandma yet." She laughs, but there's a wistfulness there that makes me want to hold her tighter.
Kat leans against the railing, her expression softening.
"So," she begins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture I've come to recognize as her way of preparing to share news, "I need to head back to Boston for a day or two. Ollie needs help packing up the house. I'm flying out this afternoon. Lydia's picking me up in fifteen minutes and dropping me at the airport."
I arch a brow, already missing her. "You sure you don't need backup?"
She smirks, that playful glint in her eye that first made me fall for her. "I think I can handle a few boxes, Nick." Then, her tone shifts, a little more tentative. “But, I do need a favor."
"Name it." No hesitation. Never with her.
"The wreckers called," she says, a shadow crossing her face so quickly I almost miss it. "They still have a few items from the car they managed to salvage. Not sure what, but they called before. Can you swing by and pick it up?"
"Of course." My response is immediate, though my mind flickers back to the twisted metal of Nora's car, to the night that changed everything.
"Thank you." She leans in for another kiss, this one softer, full of gratitude. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Well," I tease as she tries to pull away, wrapping another arm around her waist, feeling the curve of her against me, "you'll never have to wonder." I kiss her deeply, trying to memorize the moment. "Have a safe flight. Call me when you get there."
She throws me a wink before heading out the door, leaving the scent of her perfume lingering in the air like a promise.
Before I can dwell too much on what the wreckers might have found, my phone rings and Jay's name lights up the screen.
"Hey, boss."
Jay's been working for me at Sonder for a month or so now, ever since Nate left for Europe. I offered him the job partly because I needed someone to fill the gap, but mostly because I saw a kid who needed an opportunity and a second chance.
Credit to the kid, he's been looking and sounding more put together than I've ever seen him. Like he's finally finding his footing in the world. I think the night of Nate's overdose scared Jay straight. He doesn't talk about it much, but I've noticed the changes: showing up on time, staying out of trouble, even offering to take extra shifts. Sometimes the wake-up calls we need come in the hardest ways.
"How's it going?" I ask, already hearing the nervous energy in his voice.
"Good. Kinda," he says, voice pitching higher in that way it does when he's about to confess something.
Before I can worry, Jay starts rambling in that endearing way of his.
"But, uh, I think I broke the dishwasher. Just thought I'd let you know. I'm happy to pay for the damages. I think I used the wrong detergent or some shit. It's leaking and making weird ass noises. Shit. Fuck. I didn't know??—"
"Jay, relax," I cut him off gently. "It's fine. I'll swing by tomorrow and check it out. It's probably just a loose valve. Don't worry about it." I've learned sometimes the best way to help someone grow is to show them that mistakes aren't the end of the world.
Jay lets out a breath, as if he's been holding it the entire time. "Thank fuck. I did not want to wash these glasses by hand for the next month."
I laugh, surprised by how fond I've grown of the kid. "Anything else you're concerned about?"
"That's all boss."
"Jay, you know you can just call me Nick, yeah?"
"Boss sounds more badass. Not that your name sucks or anything. It's just—You know what, you're a busy man, so I'm just going to shut up and go finish polishing glasses. See ya round, boss."
He hangs up, and I shake my head with a smile. Some things never change, and maybe they shouldn't. Sometimes it's the small moments—a nervous phone call, a kid trying his best—that remind you why you do what you do.
And maybe that's what it's all about: being there, staying steady, giving people the chance to become who they're meant to be. Even if sometimes that means letting them go find themselves first. A sense of pride settles in my chest.
People can change.
It just takes the right moment—or the right push.
The yard smells like motor oil and rust, the kind of heavy industrial scent that seeps into your clothes and lingers for days. As I step into the main office of the wreckers, the overhead fluorescent lights buzz faintly, casting everything in a sickly pale glow. Mikey's behind the counter, talking to another guy I don't recognize—a blonde kid with a crooked name tag that reads Dillon.
Their conversation dies mid-sentence when the door creaks open, but before I can step fully inside, an older woman brushes past me with enough force to make me step back.
"Sorry, ma'am," I say reflexively, but she doesn't acknowledge my existence.
She's dressed like she walked straight out of some high-end department store catalog—designer everything, from her perfectly coiffed hair to her imported leather shoes. She carries herself with that particular kind of entitled grace that comes from old money and older secrets. Her face might've been stunning thirty years ago, but now it's all harsh angles and expensive makeup trying to mask the march of time. She spares me a sideways glance that could freeze hell over before sweeping past me through the door.
"Good day to you too," I mutter under my breath, stepping fully inside. The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Mikey and Dillon exchange a look that sets off every alarm bell in my head. Mikey looks startled, like someone just caught him in a lie. The other guy—Dillon—leans in close to Mikey and mutters something I can't quite catch, but I don't miss the sharp glance he shoots at the door the woman just left through.
"She paid how much to get rid of it?" Mikey whispers, his voice low but still carrying in the quiet office.
I freeze, my hand hovering over the counter as my ears prick up. Twenty years of reading people tells me something's off here.
"Shut up, man," Dillon hisses, his eyes darting to me like a guilty conscience.
I pretend I didn't hear a thing, carefully arranging my face into something neutral as I approach the counter. Years of business negotiations have taught me when to play dumb.
"Mikey," I say, nodding in greeting. "I'm here to pick up some belongings from the Jeep you guys towed in." The words taste bitter in my mouth, remembering why I'm here.
Mikey straightens up, visibly relieved to focus on something else.
"Yo, Nick. Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. Is she—uh, the girl, I mean—is she okay?"
"She's recovering," I say simply, keeping my tone even while something darker stirs in my gut.
Dillon mutters something about grabbing the box and heads toward the back, his shoulders tense. As he disappears, I lean casually against the counter, watching Mikey fidget like a man with too many secrets.
"What was a lady like that doing in a place like this?" I ask, my voice deliberately light but pointed.
Mikey glances toward the door, then back at me, hesitating. He knows me well enough to know I don't ask questions without a reason. Finally, he lets out a breath, leaning in like he's about to share something he shouldn't.
"She's been in here a few times this week," he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. "A couple of banged-up cars came through, but none of 'em were like the one she wanted to buy back."
My eyebrows lift slightly, interest piqued. "Why'd she want to buy it back if it's at the wreckers?"
Mikey starts scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Don't know. Woman has got enough money to buy a fleet of 'em if she wanted, but instead, she had Dillon get rid of it."
I feel the air shift, tension crackling like static electricity before a storm.
"She wanted to get rid of it, even though it's ended up here?"
"Dude, I don't know. You know the people here, their money does the talking so you just shut up and don't ask questions," Mikey replies, shrugging. "But she paid enough to make it disappear, so Dillon handled it."
My heart starts to hammer as the pieces start sliding into place like tumblers in a lock.
"What kind of car was it?"
"A black Porsche," Mikey says without hesitation. "Looked damn near new, too. These people don't have any concept of money."
A black Porsche.
A wealthy woman trying to erase its existence.
Recent damage.
My stomach churns as the threads of logic twist tighter, forming a picture I've been trying to see for months. Sometimes the truth doesn't hit you all at once—it creeps up slowly, piece by piece, until you can't ignore it anymore.
And this truth?
It's been hiding in plain sight all along.
Before I can press further, Dillon returns, dropping a dusty cardboard box on the counter with a dull thud.
"Here you go," he says, avoiding eye contact like a man with too many secrets.
I glance at the box but don't move to touch it. My mind's already racing ahead, connecting dots I've been staring at for months.
"Thanks," I say, sliding Dillon a twenty-dollar bill. He pockets it and disappears into the shadows of the yard, the gravel crunching under his boots.
I'm about to walk out the door myself when something makes me stop. Some instinct that's saved my skin more times than I can count. I turn to Mikey one last time.
"Do you know what that woman's name was?"
Mikey looks up from the paperwork on the counter, his expression flickering with uncertainty.
"Uhh… it starts with M. Mary? Mara? The address she put down was for the Cottswold, you know that flashy manor they rent out for the summer?" His words hang in the air like smoke.
I know the one.
I also have a feeling I know exactly who the woman is now.
Back in my car, I pull out my phone to do a quick search. The results load, and my blood runs cold as the name hits me like a physical blow. The pieces slot together with a terrible clarity that makes my stomach turn.
Moira Sullivan.
In that moment, everything crystallizes. The black Porsche. The hit-and-run. The desperate cover-up. It all leads back to one person—Scott Sullivan. The coward who left Nora bleeding out on that road, and if it hadn't been for Nate finding her when he did… The thought alone makes my hands shake with rage.
And now his mother's here, doing what she's probably done his entire life—cleaning up his messes, erasing his mistakes, making sure her precious son never has to face the consequences of his actions.
The pieces fit together like a jigsaw puzzle from hell: Scott behind the wheel, probably drunk or high. And instead of calling for help, he ran. Like the worthless coward he's always been.
Now here's his mother, carefully erasing the evidence with the same precision she's probably used his whole life.
Make it disappear.
Let money solve the problem, like always.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, memories flooding back. Nate blamed himself for all of this. But it was his father. Just like in every instance in Nate's life, Scott was at the helm of the pain and suffering.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Danny's number, rage burning cold and steady in my chest.
"I think I've got something." I watch Mikey and Dillon through the office window, their heads bent close in another hushed conversation. "And Danny? I think this goes deeper than we thought. Much deeper."
I start the engine, my mind already racing ahead. The truth about that night is finally surfacing, and when it does, Scott Sullivan is going to learn that some accidents have consequences that even his family's money can't make disappear.
I pull out onto the main road, the setting sun painting the sky blood red. In my rearview mirror, the wrecking yard disappears into shadows, taking its secrets with it.
But not for long.
Because here's the thing about secrets in a town like Eden: they never stay buried forever.
And when this one comes to light, it's going to burn everything in its path.
Starting with the Sullivans.