Chapter 13
RHYS
The paperwork for Sergei's transfer takes three hours.
Federal forms in triplicate. Chain of custody documentation.
Witness statements cross-referenced and initialed.
Every detail documented because the Marshal is still out there and we can't afford a single procedural error that might let Sergei walk.
I sign the last page and push the stack across my desk to the federal agent waiting to transport the prisoner. He nods once, gathers the files, and leaves without a word. Professional. Efficient. The kind of agent who does the job without needing conversation.
The station feels empty after he leaves. Wells is out on patrol. Dispatch is quiet. Just me and the hum of the space heater struggling against November cold seeping through old walls.
I should feel satisfied. Sergei is in federal custody. Eight women rescued. Justice served.
But Sergei refuses to disclose who the Marshal is—if he even knows. The Marshal is still out there. The network wounded but not dead.
Emma's ring is still in my pocket, but for the first time, it doesn't feel like the only thing that matters.
Harlow did that. Showed me that surviving isn't the same as living.
I stand. Grab my jacket. She texted me earlier she was heading to the mining site. It’s forty minutes from town, and I need to see her. Need to know if what we started in that cabin during the storm is real or just adrenaline and proximity and two broken people finding comfort in chaos.
The drive gives me too much time to think. Too much time to doubt. What if she takes the Bureau job? What if Alaska was just a stopping point, not a destination? What if I am reading too much into heated looks and whispered promises made in the dark?
The mining compound appears through the trees. Federal vehicles still line the access road. Crime scene tape surrounds the office building and other structures.
I park near the equipment yard. Through the chain-link fence, Harlow stands with three men in hard hats and company jackets.
She gestures toward the north perimeter, pointing out sight lines and access points.
One of the men takes notes while another nods along.
She moves with confidence, owns the space around her, speaks with authority that commands respect.
This is Harlow Kane in her element. Professional. Capable. Exactly where she belongs.
She's beautiful like this. Fierce and competent and completely in control.
One of the men asks a question. She answers, then demonstrates proper positioning for a new camera installation. The men follow her lead without hesitation. They recognize what I recognized from the start. Someone who knows her work and does it well.
Want hits me hard. Not just attraction or gratitude. I want mornings with her. Arguments about where to eat dinner. The ordinary moments that build a life together.
I want a future. With her.
She turns and sees me. Her expression shifts. Surprise, then something warmer. She says something to the men, who nod and head toward one of the temporary structures. Then she walks to the fence.
"Sheriff," she says.
"Harlow."
"Consulting job. The company wants a complete security overhaul after what happened. They asked if I would help redesign the system." She gestures toward the compound. "Turns out my FBI experience is useful for more than just patrolling empty buildings at two in the morning."
"You're good at this."
"I forgot how good it felt. Using skills that matter. Making places safer." She crosses her arms. The gesture is defensive, like she expects me to tell her not to take the job. "It's contract work. Six months to implement the new system. After that, who knows."
"After that, you could build a consulting business. Plenty of mining operations in Alaska need better security."
Her eyes search my face. "You think I should stay?"
"I think you should do what makes you happy. But yeah, I hope you stay."
The words hang between us. Too honest. Too vulnerable. But I've spent years lying to myself about what I wanted, and I'm done with that.
"Come back to the cabin with me," I say. "We need to talk. Really talk. Not in stolen moments between firefights and federal investigations. Just you and me figuring out what comes next."
She hesitates. The vulnerability in her expression mirrors mine. Then she nods. "Let me tell the team I am taking the rest of the day off."
The drive to the cabin is quiet. Not uncomfortable, but weighted with awareness that we're approaching a decision point. She sits beside me in the passenger seat, fingers drumming once against her thigh. A nervous tell I've learned to recognize.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
"That I haven't let myself imagine a future in two years. That I came to Alaska to hide and you made me want something more." She looks at me. "That terrifies me."
"It terrifies me too."
"You loved Emma. I can't compete with that."
The statement hits wrong. "This isn't a competition.
Emma was my wife. I loved her. Part of me always will.
But she's gone." My hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"And I was dead inside for years because I thought that was what honoring her memory looked like.
You showed me it doesn't have to be that way. "
"What does it look like?"
"Living. Actually living instead of just going through motions.
Emma would hate what I became after she died.
The beard, the obsession, the way I let grief consume everything good that was left.
" The cabin appears through the trees ahead.
"She would like you. Would appreciate someone who doesn't let me wallow in self-pity. "
Harlow laughs. Soft but genuine. "I have my own wallowing problems. Baker died because I made the wrong call. Two years of hiding in Alaska proves that."
"You made a tactical decision in a dynamic situation. The review board cleared you."
"Review boards aren't the same as forgiveness.
I still wake up hearing him say it wasn't my fault.
Still see the light leave his eyes." She looks out the window at snow-covered trees.
"But working this case with you, being back in the field, it reminded me why I joined the FBI in the first place.
To help people. To make a difference. I lost that after Baker died. "
I park the truck behind the cabin. Kill the engine. In the silence that follows, wind whispers through spruce branches and snow slides off the roof in wet chunks.
"What do you want, Harlow? Not what you think you should want. What do you actually want?"
She turns to face me. "I want to stay in Alaska.
Build a consulting business. Work with law enforcement on trafficking cases without the Bureau bureaucracy.
" A pause. "I want mornings in this cabin.
I want arguments about who's cooking dinner.
I want the ordinary boring beautiful life I stopped letting myself imagine. "
My heart pounds. "With me?"
"With you." Her voice is steady. Certain. "If that's what you want."
"I've been dead inside for years. You brought me back to life."
She reaches across the console. Her hand finds mine. "I've been running for two years. You made me want to stop."
We sit like that. Hands clasped. Breathing together. The future spreading out in front of us like unmarked snow waiting for tracks.
"I want a future," I say. "With you."
"Me too."
I exhale. Something shifts in my chest—grief making room for want. For hope. For whatever comes next.
We go inside. The cabin is cold. I build a fire while Harlow makes coffee. Domestic tasks that feel significant because we're doing them together. Because this is what the future looks like. Coffee and firewood and someone to share the quiet with.
When the fire catches and the coffee is ready, we sit on the couch. Close enough to touch but not touching yet. Processing what we just committed to.
"Practical details," she says. "I already accepted the consulting contract. Six months to implement the new security system at the mine. After that, I can build out the business. Take on other sites."
"You could work out of here. Use the cabin as a base. There's space for an office."
"You're offering to let me move in?"
"I'm offering to build a life together. That includes shared space." I set my coffee down. "Emma and I were saving for a house in town. Something with space for the life we wanted. After she died, I couldn't stand the idea of that house without her. So I built this instead."
"As a refuge."
"As somewhere to bury myself while I hunted her killer." The fire crackles. Heat spreads through the room. "But it doesn't have to be that anymore. It could be home. If you want it to be."
Harlow is quiet for a long moment. Then she smiles. "I want it to be home."
My shoulders drop. Tension I didn't know I was holding releases. I pull her close. She fits against me like she belongs there. Her head on my shoulder. My arm around her waist. Two broken people finding wholeness together.
Later, when she's exploring the cabin, I start gathering the photographs from the shelves. Emma smiling at the camera. Emma and me on our wedding day. Emma in her nursing scrubs.
"What are you doing?" Harlow asks.
"Putting these away. Didn't think you'd want them all over the place."
She crosses to me. Takes the frame from my hands and sets it back on the shelf. "Emma will always be part of your life. I'm not afraid of ghosts, Rhys. And I'm definitely not asking you to erase your past."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She traces the edge of the frame. "Baker's things are still in storage in Virginia. I couldn't throw them away, but I couldn't keep them either. Maybe it's time to bring some of them here."
"That's not weird?"
"It's honest." She turns to face me. "We both loved people we lost. That doesn't go away just because we found each other."
I pull her close. "We get to be happy. That's what they'd want."
"Yeah. They would."