Chapter 16
chapter sixteen
One month later
Morgan
The morning starts the way it always does now with the creak of Charlie's bedroom door followed by her small feet padding down the hallway before the sun has fully risen.
I'm already in the kitchen, coffee in hand, watching the backyard through the window where Trenton installed the new security cameras three weeks ago.
The system is state-of-the-art motion sensors, perimeter alerts, the works.
I haven't told him, but I still check the monitor every morning before I pour my coffee. Old habits.
"Morgaaaaan." Charlie appears in the doorway, Princess Sparklehoof dangling from one hand, her hair a wild tangle of dark brown curls.
She's wearing the purple dress she insists on wearing every Tuesday because Tuesday is purple day, according to some system she's developed that only she understands. "I can't find my backpack."
"Check under your bed. You kicked it there last night."
Over the last month she has grown more comfortable with us and decided to call us by our first names, dropping the titles.
She disappears and returns thirty seconds later with the pink backpack slung over one shoulder, looking pleased with herself. I hand her the bowl of cereal I poured before she even came downstairs. She climbs onto her stool at the counter and digs in.
"Miss Donna said we're making handprint turkeys today," she says around a mouthful of Cheerios. "For Thanksgiving."
"That sounds fun." I lean against the counter and sip my coffee. "You excited?"
She nods, already focused on her cereal. The conversation pauses, comfortable and easy, the kind of pause that would have been filled with fear a month ago but now just feels like a normal Tuesday.
The routine has settled over us, warm and healing.
Mornings start early. Charlie has preschool three days a week at the small community center downtown, the one with the fenced playground and the teacher who calls me every afternoon with a report on Charlie's day.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are therapy days.
Dr. Elaine's office smells like lavender and has a basket of fidget toys in the waiting room, and Charlie has started calling it "the talking room," which Dr. Elaine says is a good sign.
Trenton appears in the doorway, already dressed in his club cut over a black t-shirt, his hair damp from the shower he just took. He presses a kiss to the top of my head on his way to the coffeepot.
"Morning, kiddo," he says to Charlie.
"Morning, Trent. We're making turkeys today."
"Handprint turkeys?"
"Yep." She holds up her free hand, fingers splayed. "With the fingers."
He nods like this is the most important intelligence briefing of the day and pours his coffee.
I watch the easy way he moves around our kitchen now, opening the right cabinet for the sugar, knowing which drawer holds the spoons, refilling Charlie's juice without being asked.
A month ago, this kitchen was a war room. Now it's just a kitchen.
Matthew comes in through the back door, the cool morning air following him. He's been outside since dawn, running the perimeter check that has become as much a part of his routine as brushing his teeth. He presses a kiss to my temple and reaches past me for a coffee mug.
"All clear," he says quietly.
I nod. I know he'll say the same thing tomorrow and the day after that. The perimeter check is less about actual danger now and more about the ritual of it, the way his body needs to confirm, every single morning, that the world outside our fence is still holding.
"Drop-off at nine," I tell him. "Pickup at two. Therapy at four."
"Got it." He takes his coffee black, the way he takes everything, straight, no embellishment, no performance. "You're sure you don't want me to handle the therapy run today?"
"I've got it." I set my mug in the sink and move to Charlie, who's pushing her empty bowl away with the satisfied expression of someone who's finished a very important task. "Come on, turkey artist. Let's get your teeth brushed."
She slides off the stool and takes my hand.
Her small fingers wrap around mine with a grip that's looser than it was a month ago, not the desperate clutch of a child who's afraid of being left behind, but the easy, trusting hold of a child who knows she'll be right where she belongs when she turns around.
In the bathroom, I watch her stand on her step stool and attack her teeth with a purple toothbrush. She's gotten taller in the last month. Or maybe I'm just noticing it now because I'm actually watching her grow instead of watching for threats over her shoulder.
"Morgan?" She spits into the sink. "Is Mr. Carter coming over tonight?"
"Not tonight, sweetheart. He's working at the clubhouse."
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer.
Carter has become a fixture in our lives in a way I didn't expect.
He stops by most evenings after his shift at the garage, sometimes with food, sometimes just to sit on our porch and drink a beer with Trenton and Matthew while Charlie shows him her latest art project through the window.
He's built her a birdhouse, and taught her how to throw a proper punch, which I pretended to be horrified about but secretly found endearing.
He calls her "little warrior" and she calls him "Mr. Carter".
"He said he'd teach me how to ride a bike," Charlie says, wiping her mouth on the hand towel.
"Did he?"
"Yep. When it's warmer. He said spring."
I smile and gather her hair into a ponytail. "Spring sounds perfect."
By eight thirty, we're packed and ready. Charlie's backpack contains her lunch, her water bottle, and Princess Sparklehoof, who attends preschool every Tuesday whether the school's policy on stuffed animals allows it or not. I've learned to pick my battles.
Trenton and Matthew leave first for the clubhouse.
They've been diving into the MC's operations with the kind of focus they used to reserve for missions overseas.
Greyson has them running security details, like route planning, the kind of work that uses the specific skill set they spent six years honing.
I can see it settling into them, this new purpose.
They come home tired but satisfied, with stories about runs and recruits and the particular chaos of a Devil Soul chapter meeting.
I stand in the driveway and watch their trucks pull away, then help Charlie into the back seat of the SUV.
The car seat was a battle we fought and lost since she's technically old enough for a booster, but neither Trenton nor Matthew was willing to compromise on this one.
Charlie doesn't seem to mind. She buckles herself in with the practiced efficiency of a child who's been told a hundred times that seat belts are nonnegotiable.
"Ready?" I ask, adjusting the rearview mirror.
"Ready." She's already pulling Princess Sparklehoof out of her backpack, positioning the stuffed unicorn on her lap for the drive.
The preschool is fifteen minutes away, tucked into a quiet neighborhood near the elementary school.
I pull into the drop-off line and watch the other parents: moms in yoga pants, dads in work shirts, a grandmother who drives a station wagon and waves at everyone like she's running for mayor.
Normal people living normal lives. A month ago, watching them would have made me feel like an impostor.
Now it just makes me feel like I'm getting there.
"Have a good day, sweetheart." I unbuckle her and she hops down, backpack slung over one shoulder, unicorn clutched to her chest.
"Bye, Morgan!" She's already scanning the playground for her friend Lily, the little girl with red pigtails who shares Charlie's obsession with purple Tuesdays.
I watch her run to the gate, where Miss Donna waits with her clipboard and a warm smile. Charlie says something that makes Miss Donna laugh, and then she's through the gate and onto the playground, and for a moment I let myself just stand there and watch her be a kid.
No looking over her shoulder. No scanning the tree line. No calculating escape routes.
Just a little girl on a playground on a Tuesday morning.
I get back in the car and sit for a moment before starting the engine. My phone buzzes with a text from Matthew: All good?
All good, I type back. She's in. Heading to the store.
Three dots appear, then: Call if you need anything. Love you.
Love you too.
I put the phone down and start the car. The day stretches ahead: groceries, laundry, the email I need to send to the adoption lawyer about next week's hearing.
I've put my teaching job on hold for now, the decision made in one of those late-night conversations that happen when the house is quiet and Charlie is asleep and the three of us are sitting on the couch with our legs tangled together.
"I want to be here," I told them. "For her. For the transition. I can go back to work when she's more settled."
Neither of them argued. Matthew just nodded and Trenton squeezed my hand, and that was that.
The store is quiet at this hour. I move through the aisles with my list, filling the cart with the things Charlie likes, like the specific brand of yogurt, the juice boxes with the dinosaurs on them, and the crackers shaped like fish.
It's mundane in a way that feels like a gift.
A month ago, a trip to the grocery store meant scanning every face, tracking every movement, my hand never far from the phone in my pocket.
Now it means remembering whether we're out of milk.
My phone rings as I'm loading bags into the trunk. Carter's name lights up the screen.
"Hey," I answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. "What's up?"
"Just checking in." His voice is warm, easy. "Matt said you were at the store. Everything good?"
"Everything's good. Charlie made it to preschool without incident. Well, she tried to bring Princess Sparklehoof into the classroom, but Miss Donna handled it."