Chapter 18 #3
“It was all I had left of him.” Richard’s voice was weary.
“I read it every year on June fifteenth. Tortured myself with it. Told myself that Thomas was out there somewhere, living a better life, loving a better man, free from the corruption and compromise that had destroyed what we had. That at least one of us had escaped, had found peace.”
He moved back to the window, his gaze on the greenhouse.
“When they found his body, I realized that letter was a lie. That Thomas never left, never escaped, never found peace. That someone killed him and forged that letter to cover their tracks. I spent fifty years mourning a choice he never made, believing he’d abandoned me when really… ”
His voice broke on a rasp. “He was buried in concrete, dead and forgotten, while I lived my life believing he’d chosen to leave me.”
“The handwriting,” Dominic said, moving closer to examine the letter over my shoulder. “It looks authentic to you then?”
“Authentic enough to fool me for fifty years,” Richard said bitterly, not turning around.
“You need to give this to Sheriff Hawkins,” I said gently. “It’s evidence. It proves Thomas’ disappearance was premeditated, that someone planned carefully to make it look like he left voluntarily.”
Richard nodded slowly, finally turning to face us. “I’ll call Sheriff Hawkins today. Give him everything—the letter, everything I know and was involved in at the time.”
“Hawkins needs to know everyone who had access to Thomas’ handwriting samples and information about your private conversations,” Dominic said.
Richard’s expression was haunted. “My father knew. Vicente Antonelli knew. Judge Whitmore knew—they all knew about Thomas’ ultimatum, about the deadline, about how dangerous Thomas had become to our operation. Any one of them could have…”
He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t bring himself to name the possibilities.
“Sheriff Hawkins will investigate everyone who knew,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
Richard looked down at the letter in my hands, fifty years of grief and regret written across his weathered face.
“I should have chosen him,” he whispered.
“The moment he asked—no, before he even had to ask. The moment I realized I loved him, I should have given up everything. I should have walked away from all of it and fought for us.” He shook his head.
“But I was a coward. I thought I had time. I thought he’d come around, see my side, forgive my involvement, choose me despite all my failures… ”
The words seemed to die in his throat.
There was nothing I could say to that. No comfort that would ease five decades of living with the wrong choice. No words that would change what had happened or bring Thomas back or give either of them the life they’d lost.
Dominic’s hand squeezed my shoulder, and through our bond I felt his awareness of my emotional state, his concern mixed with understanding.
“Thank you for talking to us,” I said, standing carefully and holding the letter out to Richard. “And for agreeing to give this to Sheriff Hawkins. It might be the key to finding out who killed Thomas. To finally getting him justice.”
Richard took the letter with trembling hands, cradling it like it was made of glass.
“Justice,” he repeated, the word bitter in his mouth. “What’s justice for Thomas now? For our baby? It won’t bring them back.”
“No,” I agreed quietly. “But it’s something. It’s acknowledgment that they mattered, even after all this time.”
Richard nodded without looking up, still staring at the letter—that instrument of deception that had helped someone keep a terrible secret for fifty years.
We left him there in his study, surrounded by memories and mementos and the view of the greenhouse where the trilliums grew.
As we walked back toward the ballroom, Dominic’s hand found mine, warm and solid and real.
“You okay?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I just… I think I need some air.”
We stepped outside into the winter cold. Workers bustled around us, stringing twinkling lights and arranging poinsettias for tonight’s celebration. The contrast between the festive preparations and Richard’s devastating grief cut through me like the wind.
We found refuge in a small alcove beneath a white tent at the edge of the circular driveway, set up to receive guests as they arrived.
Canvas walls fluttered but blocked the worst of the biting wind.
Dominic stepped behind me, engulfing me in his long wool coat, his arms wrapping around my waist. I leaned back into his solid warmth, watching our breath curl into ghostly plumes in the frigid air.
“It’s too cold out here for you,” Dominic murmured, his lips grazing my ear, his body a fortress against the cold.
“Just a little while longer,” I murmured. “Then we’ll go back in.”
I glanced around—no one seemed to be paying any attention to us.
Spinning within his embrace, I clutched his collar between my fingers and tugged him downward.
My lips crashed against his with a fierce hunger, my body pressing into his until no space remained between us, as if I could somehow dissolve the very molecules separating us.
He made a surprised sound against my mouth but responded immediately, his hands coming up to cradle my face as he kissed me back with equal fervor. His scent wrapped around me—pine and cinnamon and pure alpha—grounding me in the present moment.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Dominic searched my face with concern and heat.
“What was that about?” he asked, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “Not that I’m complaining, but—”
“I just… I needed to…” I struggled to find words for what I was feeling.
How did I explain that watching Richard’s grief had made me realize how lucky I was?
That hearing the years of regret in his voice had made me appreciate every day I had with Dominic?
That understanding how easily everything could be lost made me want to hold tighter to what we had?
“I think we should leave the investigating to Sheriff Hawkins from now on,” I said finally, surprising myself with the words.
Dominic’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “Leo Sterling-Hart, voluntarily stepping back from sticking your cute little nose into places it doesn’t belong? Are you feeling alright? Should I take you to the hospital? Check for fever? Maybe an exorcism is necessary?”
“I’m serious,” I said, weakly slapping at his chest before placing my hand over his heart, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm. “Richard said he’s going to turn the letter over to Sheriff Hawkins. It’s time to let the authorities do their job while we focus on…”
I gestured between us, then down to my stomach where our baby grew. “On this. On us.”
Dominic’s expression shifted through several emotions at once—relief and joy and something deeper all tangled together. His hand covered mine, pressing my palm more firmly against his chest.
“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” he said, leaning in to kiss me again, softer this time but no less intense. “Very, very glad.”
When he pulled back, his dark eyes were searching mine, trying to understand what had changed.
“What made you decide this?” he asked quietly. “What happened in there?”
“Richard,” I said simply. “Hearing him talk about how he thought he had time, how he wanted Thomas to choose him, how he would have forced Thomas’s hand if he’d known about the baby…”
I swallowed hard against the emotion rising in my throat. “He loved Thomas, but he didn’t choose him. Not when it mattered. Thomas died thinking the man he loved had abandoned him.”
Dominic fingers brushed over my cheekbone with infinite tenderness, tucking a windblown stand of hair behind my ear.
“You chose me,” I continued. “When you could have followed through with the original plan for the District, when it would have been easier to just… not. You chose me.”
“I’d do it again,” Dominic said, like it was the simplest thing in the world, like there had never been any other option. “From the moment I saw you in your shop, every other consideration became irrelevant.”
I leaned forward until our foreheads touched, breathing in Dominic’s scent, letting it calm me.
“I don’t want to waste a single moment of what we have,” I whispered.
I pulled back to meet his eyes. “I want to focus on us. On our baby. Is that selfish?”
“No,” Dominic said firmly, his strong arms drawing me into his warmth. “It’s not selfish. It’s smart. It’s healthy. It’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for.”
He kissed me softly.
“Take me home,” I said against his lips. “Let’s go make sure Penny is alright. Then, I want you to take me home.”
His eyes darkened with immediate understanding, his scent sharpening with carnal interest.
“We have the centennial celebration tonight,” he said. “The party starts at seven, and you promised Mrs. Henderson you’d be there early to help with final preparations. That’s…” He glanced at his watch. “Four hours from now.”
“Rain check then,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment even as my inner omega whined at the delay.
“Absolutely not.” Dominic’s smile turned wicked. “Four hours is more than enough time for me to thoroughly demonstrate exactly how much I appreciate you too.”