Sloane
The whole graveyard is empty except for me and Rafe. The only signs of life are the street sounds off in the distance and the red graffiti staining Maddy's tombstone. JUNKIE, it says. An accusation. An insult. A lie.
I dip my brush into a bucket of soapy water and scrub, each stroke of my hand slow and careful.
Three days since Rafe killed Dale Callahan, and I still don't know how to process it.
He came home that night with blood under his fingernails and a hollow look in his eyes.
His leather gloves were missing—a detail I noticed immediately.
When he told me what he'd done, his voice was flat, unapologetic.
"It's finished," he'd said simply. "Dale won't hurt anyone else. "
I didn't ask for details. Part of me didn't want to know. But another part already understood. Rafe had crossed a line for me, had taken a life because Dale was responsible for Maddy's death. Because he'd used her, betrayed her, marked her for death. Because he'd hurt someone I loved.
The air is crisp with the kind of chill that settles into your bones, even as the sun fights to break through the New York haze. March, but it feels like winter.
I press the brush against the granite, the bristles hard and rough in my hand.
I work with determination, each stroke taking a little more of the ugly red away.
I can see the words disappearing, and it feels like they're scrubbing themselves out of my heart too.
I can breathe for the first time in a long time, knowing I'll finally clear her name.
This is what Rafe gave me—justice, closure, the truth I'd been searching for since Maddy died.
He killed for me. The thought should terrify me.
It should send me running as far from him as possible.
Instead, I feel a complex tangle of emotions, gratitude, guilt, and something darker I don't want to name.
What does it say about me that I can love a man capable of such violence?
That I can stand beside him and not flinch away?
The word is still visible, still there, but I scrub harder. I scrub until my arms burn.
Rafe watches me, quiet and steady.
He's there like he always is, and it means everything.
He carries the weight of what he's done without complaint, without hesitation.
As if ending Dale's life was simply another step in protecting what's his.
And now, somehow, I'm what's his. I belong to a man who kills without remorse, who walks between worlds—the civilized one where we play family games and share meals, and the violent one where bodies are disposed of and blood is washed away.
Rafe doesn't try to stop me or slow me down, doesn't tell me to be careful with my hands or my heart.
He knows better than that now. I work the brush in hard circles, more soap than water, and feel the determination in each stroke.
Feel the months of doubt washing away with each dip of the brush.
Maddy wasn't a junkie. Maddy didn't get herself killed.
It took me a long time to figure it out, but I finally did.
"Lucas was working with the Callahans," I whisper to the grave, to her. "That's how they got into your accounts. It wasn't Ethan. He was trying to protect you."
Rafe stands back, watching me. Letting me have this moment with Maddy, with my memories. Letting me do what I need to do.
"They won't remember you this way," I say to her. "Not if I have anything to do with it."
I dip the brush again, but the water is already red and soapy, and it's hard to see through the foam. It doesn't matter. I keep scrubbing until my hands sting. Until the air burns my lungs with each cold, desperate breath.
Then I stop, look at my work. I don't say anything, just stare at the gray stone with the name TORRES carved deep. It's not clean, not yet. But it will be. I promise that much.
A single tear slips down my cheek, and I wipe it away before it can fall.
"You'll be remembered," I tell her. "Not like this. I promise."
Rafe is still there, a constant, quiet presence.
He doesn't say a word, doesn't have to. His support is enough. More than enough.
I breathe in, feeling my heart slow as the chill bites at my fingers. Lucas betrayed her. Lucas and his secrets.
I can almost hear Maddy laughing, telling me not to get so worked up. I can almost feel her beside me, urging me to finish what I've started. I smile, even as the tears threaten to fall again.
I work the brush with determination, my hands stiff from the cold. I feel a lifetime of weight fall from my shoulders as the red fades.
I set the brush down, the plastic handle slick and cold in my numb hands. I don't say a word as I reach for the envelope beside the bucket. It's oversized, one of those manila folders that you see in the hands of someone about to serve you papers.
That's exactly what I'm about to do.
"I have Lucas's confession," I tell her, my breath visible in the icy air. "The bank records. Everything."
I turn to look at Rafe, and the strength in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, gives me the courage to keep going.
"To the newspapers?" he asks, and there's pride in his voice.
"Yes," I reply. "To the papers."
I clutch the envelope to my chest, feel the weight of the documents inside. Lucas's confession, everything I need to clear her name. To free myself from the guilt that I've been carrying since she died. Rafe nods, his approval as steady and unyielding as the rest of him.
The burden I've carried is already slipping away, like the frost on the tombstones.
"Thank you, Rafe," I say, not looking at him.
Not looking anywhere. Just letting the words fall.
"For what?" he asks, and it almost makes me laugh.
I shake my head, wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I can finally breathe. I can finally let go of the past. Maddy's death. My guilt. The feeling that I'll never be enough. I set the envelope back down and reach for the brush again, but Rafe is faster.
He grabs it and holds it out to me. I don't take it right away.
"You sure about this?" he asks. "You don't have to—"
"I do," I say. "I have to. And I will."
I stare at him, feeling my heart catch fire. Feeling everything catch fire. His eyes are so intense, so alive, I can't look away. I reach out and take the brush from his hands.
"Don't know if I can give you anything back," I say, feeling the words stick in my throat.
"Don't need you to," he replies.
He steps back, but I feel his presence like a flame, like warmth.
"Once the story's out there," I say, "then it's done."
The wind bites at my cheeks, but it feels good. It feels real.
I dip the brush into the bucket, scrubbing away the last bit of red.
The gray stone looks new again, untouched, unmarked.
"Yeah," Rafe says, reaching out for my hand.
I take it, letting him pull me into the warmth of his arms. The world disappears, and it's just the two of us, just this moment, just this hope that I thought I'd never have.
He holds me there, and I know what it's like to be found. To be alive.
We stand like that, silent and breathing, until I finally pull back. Until I'm ready to be whole again.
"You think they'll print it?" I ask, clutching the envelope. "Lucas's confession?"
"I'll make sure of it," he says.
His confidence makes me giddy, and I laugh, an unexpected sound that cuts through the cold.
"You're ready, Sloane," Rafe says, holding my gaze. Holding me steady.
I believe him. For the first time, I believe it's true.
I take a breath, let it fill me up. It feels good, it feels free.
"Let's get out of here," I say, and I don't let go of his hand.
The blade is cold and unforgiving, and the sharp edge glints in the kitchen's dim light as I slice through another carrot, sending a bright orange disc skittering across the marble countertop. Precise, I think, and my heart beats faster.
I haven't dared use a knife this sharp since Bear died, never trusted my own hands to be steady enough. The words always echoed in my head. What if it happens again, what if you can't control it, what if someone gets hurt, what if, what if, what if. But today, the only sound is steel on wood.
It's a crisp, clean sound. Each slice lands with a little thunk.
I glance at my hands, amazed. They're strong.
Steady. Not the hands of a guilty girl who lets people down, who gets people hurt.
Not the hands of someone who carries ghosts everywhere she goes.
The thought makes me giddy, and I look up.
Rafe is there, a dark and quiet presence beside me. He leans against the counter, eyes on my hands. Eyes on my work. Watching each slice with a kind of reverence that makes me laugh under my breath.
"Careful, Rosetti," I say, raising an eyebrow. "You'll make me think you care."
He doesn't blink.
"You know I do," he says, the words warm and steady, like the rest of him.
His gaze moves from the knife to my face, and my heart flutters in my chest, a bird in flight.
I pick up a piece of carrot, popping it in my mouth. It's fresh and crunchy and real, and I chew it like I've never tasted anything better. The whole kitchen is warm and familiar, and I finally feel at home in it.
In my own life.
In my own skin.
Rafe watches me, watches the way I work, and I know he sees it too. The change in me. I don't flinch when the knife comes down. I don't hesitate.
He holds a glass of whiskey, cradling it in his palm. His presence is electric, a live wire that makes everything more real, more alive. It's the kind of intensity that makes me feel like I'm the only thing in the world.
I cut the carrot again, just to see his reaction. He looks at the bright orange discs, then back at me, and it makes my blood hum.
"Those are perfect," he says, and I can tell he means more than the carrots.
"Better be," I reply, teasing. "They took long enough."
My voice is light, but there's an edge to it. Lucas's confession is still in my mind, but it doesn't hurt like it used to. Knowing the truth means I'm finally free of it. Knowing what happened, why she died, and who was responsible. I finally have the answers.
And it feels incredible.
I'm ready to take risks. I'm ready to live my life without the shadows that haunted me for so long.
Bear. Maddy. The accusations and the secrets. The guilt I thought I'd never shake.
It's all in the past. It's all gone.
I set the knife down, look at Rafe. At his confidence, his certainty, his quiet intensity that makes my heart skip.
His eyes are like fire.
He leans in close, like he's about to claim what's his. Like he's about to take everything.
He doesn't know it yet, but I'm about to let him.
"Rafe," I whisper, but I don't finish the sentence. I don't have to.
Not when the rest of our lives are waiting.