Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
brAN
Hospitals at night all feel the same.
Doesn’t matter if you’re in Dublin, Belfast, or a small town in Virginia—there’s always that humming, too-bright limbo where time stops making sense and everything smells like bleach.
The only thing that makes this one different is the girl asleep against my side.
Tallulah snores.
Not loud. Just a soft, whistling little sound at the end of each exhale that I’ve come to think of as proof of life.
She’s curled up half on the narrow hospital bed, half on me, IV taped to the back of her hand, hair a wild mess over my arm. I’m perched on the edge of the mattress, boots on the floor, shoulder screaming at me from where I took the hit in the alley.
I’d sit like this for a month if it meant she stayed breathing.
The nurse tried to kick me out once.
Cotton appeared in the doorway two minutes later, pregnant and terrifying, and somehow the issue resolved itself without me saying a word.
Now the staff just pretend they don’t see me—quite a feat considering my size.
I stroke my thumb over her knuckles, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
The door eases open with a soft click.
Jack steps in, a Styrofoam cup in each hand. He looks like he’s walked through a war and came out the other side on caffeine and spite alone.
He hands me one of the cups.
“Coffee,” he says. “Or somethin’ adjacent.”
I take it with my free hand.
“Thanks,” I say.
He leans against the wall near the window, hat tipped back, eyes on Tallulah.
“She doin’ okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Docs say she’ll be groggy for a bit, but the stuff’s out of her system. No lasting damage.”
“Physically,” he says.
I know what he means. I also know there’s no point in trying to predict the shape of those scars yet.
“We’ll handle it,” I say.
He nods.
Silence stretches, companionable and heavy.
Down the hall, a cart squeaks. Somewhere, a TV mutters the late-night news. Snow brushes against the window in lazy, drifting flakes.
“Got somethin’ for you,” Jack says after a minute.
He pulls a folded printout from the inside of his jacket and holds it out. I shift just enough to take it without jostling Tallulah.
It’s a still from a security camera. Not Floyd’s—this is grainier, darker, a wider street.
“Three hours after the toy thing went sideways,” he says. “Richmond. Parking lot outside a big-box store.”
The image is bad, but I know that profile now—the tilt of the head, the casual way he walks, like he’s never in a hurry even when he should be.
Henry.
He’s blurred, getting into a car.
The girl walking past him on the sidewalk has no idea.
My stomach twists.
“He didn’t hit there,” Jack says. “No incident, no follow-up. I think he was just…moving through. Maybe driving himself crazy trying to figure out what the hell to do after losing his prize.”
“She’s not—” I start, then catch myself.
He knows.
Jack nods.
“He’s changing,” he says. “Expanding his radius. You were right in that first profile—he doesn’t like dead ends. You threw him one. Now he’s looking for a new angle.”
“To get to her?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe he’s deciding she’s not as fun if somebody snatches her out of his arms.”
The idea hits like a stone.
“He’ll come back,” I say.
“Almost certainly,” Jack says. “But I don’t think he’s coming right back. Men like him don’t like being made to look stupid. He’ll lick his wounds. He’ll plan. And he’s got more than one obsession simmering.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
Jack sips his coffee, eyes on the window.
“Remember that bomb in Richmond I told you about?” he asks. “The domestic terror thing years back, at that outdoor festival.”
I nod.
“Pulled a teenage girl outta that mess,” he says. “Lost a lot of people that day. Cops, civilians, kids. I was looking back at the manifesto that surfaced recently and there was something in it that sent up some alarm bells. Something that felt less like ideology and more like—”
“A story,” I finish. “But that was years ago. He would have been a teenager…?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I might be crazy. I hope I’m crazy. I’m definitely going to look deeper before I send it to State or anything.”
My grip tightens on Tallulah’s hand.
“The thing is…if it is him…it means there’s a good chance he’s been practicin’ for a long time,” Jack continues.
“It means his modus operandi is more fluid than we’ve ever given him credit for, which makes it more difficult to pin him down.
And it means survivors—like the one from the bombing and Tallulah and Shiloh… they stick in a man like that’s teeth.”
My stomach sinks.
“What are you gonna do?” I ask.
“Go back through old case files,” he says.
“I’ve already called a friend in Richmond PD.
We’re pullin’ transcripts, footage, the works.
And administration finally won that fight about bringin’ in a trauma specialist for the department, so I’ll have someone for Tallulah and others to talk to.
Some shrink with a fancy CV. She’s startin’ next month.
” His mouth twists. “Only they want me to be her first patient, so that backfired a little. Mandatory debriefing, they call it.”
“Everyone needs to talk about their feelings, Jack” I say, unable to resist.
He glares.
“I’m more worried she’ll be useless,” he says. “Last thing I need is some outsider comin’ in here thinkin’ this is a Hallmark town with a serial killer problem.”
My gaze slides to Tallulah.
Lucy Falls isn’t a Hallmark town. It’s sharper than that. Messier. Realer.
Jack pushes off the wall, empties his cup in the trash.
“Anyway, I’m going home,” he says. “You need anything, you call.”
“Tell them she’s okay,” I say. “Tell Cotton and Brodie I’ll call them in the morning.”
“I will,” he says.
He pauses at the door.
“Hey, Irish,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“You did good,” he says.
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t catch him,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You did somethin’ harder. You caught her.”
He tips his hat, then slips out into the hallway, leaving me alone with the beeps and the girl in the bed.
Tallulah makes a soft sound and shifts, burrowing closer.
I set the paper aside and curl around her as best I can without jostling the IV.
Outside, snow keeps falling.
Inside, the woman I love is alive.
Henry can plan, pivot, can turn his attention to whatever new story he thinks he’s writing.
We’ll be ready.
Twiggy
(Four weeks later)
I used to hate January.
It always felt like the hangover after a party I hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place. Gray slush, dead tinsel, resolutions I knew I wouldn’t keep.
Lucy Falls in January is different.
It’s still cold. The snow is half-melted and slightly dingy. The Christmas lights are mostly down, except for the ones Cotton refuses to remove.
But there’s a quietude here that doesn’t feel like an ending.
It feels like…a reset.
I’m standing on the back porch of Cotton’s house in a stolen sweater—Bran’s—and fuzzy socks, watching my breath curl out in little clouds.
Down in the pasture, one of the mares flicks her tail. Saoirse is trying to make a snowman out of what’s left of the drift by the fence, Brodie hovering like he expects the snow to suddenly become sentient and attack her. Cotton is yelling something about mittens from the kitchen door.
Behind me, the screen door creaks.
Arms slide around my waist.
Warmth.
“I knew I’d find you pilferin’ my clothes ago,” Bran says, breath brushing the shell of my ear.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “These are community property now. Like the coffee pot’s going to be. And your Netflix password.”
He chuckles, low.
He’s solid at my back, chest pressed to my shoulders, chin hooked over my head.
Big spoon, tiny menace.
I lean into it shamelessly.
“How’s the shoulder?” I ask.
“Fine,” he says. “Stopped hurtin’ days ago.”
He’s lying. It still twinges when he lifts it too high.
I don’t call him on it, though.
“How’s your head?” he asks.
I know what he means.
“Depends on the hour,” I say honestly. “Mornings are usually good. Nights are…noisy.”
Nightmares. Flashes. The smell of that cloth, thick and cloying, the feel of being carried like luggage.
Sometimes it’s Henry in those dreams.
Sometimes it’s my father, all blank eyes and lists.
Sometimes it’s nobody at all.
Bran’s arms tighten.
“You tell me when it gets bad,” he says. “Yeah? Even if it’s two in the morning.”
“I do,” I say.
I do. More nights than not, I end up pressed against him, hand on his chest, counting each heart beat until mine slows.
“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head back to look up at him. “Any alley flashbacks? Santa suit trauma?”
He huffs.
“I’ll never be able to look at a beard the same way again,” he says. “But I’m all right.”
He’s not. Not entirely.
He watches doors now with a hunter’s focus. Tracks exits in every room. It was always there in him. It’s just…sharper now.
But when I wake up choking on the memory of that cloth, he’s there before I get both eyes open.
We’re both learning how to live with it.
“What if we go one day without mentioning him?” I suggest. “Just as an experiment. Twenty-four hours where we treat him like he’s not the center of the universe.”
Bran kisses my hair.
“I’d like that,” he says. “Consider this hour a Henry-free zone.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Then you can focus on the very important question of where we’re putting the bookshelves in the new place.”
He groans.
“Tink,” he says. “We haven’t even signed the papers yet.”
“We’re going to,” I say breezily. “I saw the way you looked at that little craftsman on Willow Street. You were practically measuring the porch for pumpkins.”
He did like the porch. And the kitchen.
And the fact that it’s walking distance to both Karla’s and the station. Jack offered him a job, and while he’s always going to be Kael’s man, he’ll be Kael’s man from a distance. It’ll be nice for him to have a purpose that isn’t linked to the mob, even if that purpose is somewhat…at odds…with it.
“And we’re keeping your apartment?” he asks, like he still can’t quite believe I’m serious about staying.
“For now,” I say. “Jack said it might be good for a rental for the new department psychologist until she finds a place, and I agree.’”
Bran nods. “True enough. Is he still whinin’ about that whole thing?” he asks.
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “Apparently she starts next week. Board-certified, trauma specialist, big-city credentials. His administration is vibrating with excitement. Him, not so much.”
“Jack’s vibratin’ with dread,” he says.
“Yes,” I agree. “It’s delightful.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes, our gazes turned toward the fields and the sun beginning to set over the patches of snow on the grass.
“There’s still so much to be…fixed. Do you think we’re allowed to be happy in the middle of all this?” I ask, quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. He turns me in his arms instead, so I’m facing him, my hands resting on his chest, and looks down at me, blue-gray eyes serious.
“I don’t think happiness is something you’re allowed,” he says. “Like a permit. I think it’s something you steal when you can and build when you can’t. And I think you, Tally-girl, are overdue.”
Saoirse shrieks from the yard, delighted.
We both look over.
She’s managed to assemble a lopsided snowman with a crooked grin. Brodie is handing her a carrot nose. Cotton is filming from the porch like this is the most important art installation of the year.
Kael, who has yet to return to Philly, stands on the steps with his hands in his coat pockets, pretending to be unimpressed.
When he catches me looking, he tips his chin up, then mouths, You good?
I nod, and he nods back.
It’s not an apology. Not exactly. It’s…acknowledgment.
We’re all still here.
Bran reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.
For a second, my heart does a weird double-beat. We already had the hospital proposal.
I don’t need a ring to know what we are.
But the little velvet box is still enough to make my breath catch.
He notices.
“This is not pressure,” he says quickly. “You already said yes. This is just…a shiny object to make it official when you feel like wearing it.”
He flips the box open.
The ring is simple. A thin band, warm gold, with a small, round diamond in the center and two tiny emeralds on either side.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“If you hate it, we can change it,” he rushes on. “I didn’t want anything too big—knew you’d never wear it if it got caught in your hair every five seconds. But I wanted something that looked like you. Clean. Sharp. Different.”
My eyes burn.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You absolute sap.”
He laughs, relief loosening his shoulders.
“May I?” he asks, suddenly shy.
I hold out my left hand.
He slides the ring on.
It fits like it was always meant to be there.
My brain does a funny, skipping record thing, trying to overlay old scripts on this moment—my father’s list of acceptable matches, society columns, staged photos.
None of them stick.
This is just a porch, some snow, a man with bruised knuckles and soft eyes putting a ring on my finger because I said yes in a hospital bed with my hair a mess and a blood pressure cuff on my arm.
He kisses me. It’s not a first kiss, or a desperate one. It’s steady. Certain.
An of course kind of kiss.
When we break apart, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out.
Jack: Got news. Henry didn’t hit Richmond. But he left a new present. We’ll talk tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.
Jack: And tell Santa congrats on the upgrade from contract elf-sitting to permanent fiancé.
My eyebrows climb.
“Jack says hi,” I tell Bran. “And he already knows about the ring.”
“Of course he does,” Bran mutters.
I tuck the phone away.
Tomorrow, we’ll talk about Henry’s “present.” We’ll look at photos, trace lines on maps, argue over patterns.
Tomorrow, the story keeps going.
Today, I stand on Cotton’s back porch in a sweater that doesn’t belong to me, with a ring on my finger and a man at my back and a family that accidentally adopted me.
For a girl who spent most of her life being decoration in someone else’s narrative, it feels a little like theft.
The good kind.
I lace my fingers through Bran’s. We step off the porch together, into the cold, into the mess, into whatever comes next.
Not as bait.
Not as prey.
As two idiots in love in a town that feels like ours.