Chapter 16
Sixteen
Graham Cullen sat in the back corner booth, facing the door, just like always.
Charlotte saw him the moment she stepped inside the diner.
He hadn’t changed so much as settled. The sharp edges had worn down.
His black hair was now streaked with gray, and a salt-and-pepper beard framed his face—neatly trimmed, intentional. Still him. Just older. Like her.
He stood when he saw her.
Her pulse jumped. Fifteen years since they’d last spoken. Fifteen years of silence. She had no idea what she was supposed to say. She walked toward him, each step slower than the last.
He stepped out into the aisle and gave her a faint, crooked smile. “Well, Char. You look good.”
“So do you, Graham.”
Stilted words. Polite. Safe. Not them.
She stared at him, opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Damn it, Graham,” she said finally, her voice cracking. She opened her arms.
He didn’t hesitate. He stepped into her, wrapped his arms around her, and held on. It wasn’t a polite hug. It was something heavier. Years of history pressed between them. Regret. Gratitude. Grief. Love?
She buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled. “I handled things terribly.”
A low chuckle rumbled through him. “You sure as hell did.” But he didn’t let go.
Charlotte didn’t move. She couldn’t. There was too much between them—years they hadn’t talked, years where she’d convinced herself it was better this way. But standing there with his arms around her, she felt how wrong that had been.
Graham held her like he meant it. No hesitation. No blame in the way his hands gripped her back.
When they finally pulled apart, he searched her face like he was trying to read all the years that had passed. “Still carry everything in your eyes.”
Charlotte gave a faint, tired smile. “So do you.”
Graham motioned to the booth. “Sit. You want coffee?”
She slid into the seat. “Yeah.”
He flagged down the waitress without taking his eyes off her. They didn’t speak until the mugs were in front of them, the waitress moving off with a knowing glance.
Charlotte wrapped her hands around the cup, grounding herself. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“Didn’t know if I should.” He shrugged. “But you called. That meant something.”
“I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t serious.”
“You were never one for false alarms.”
Charlotte watched the steam curl off her coffee, her fingers loosely wrapped around the mug like it might slip through if she gripped it too tight. Across from her, Graham looked irritatingly at ease — same crooked smile, same eyes that never gave away enough.
“So,” she said, voice light but edged, “what have you been up to all this time?”
Graham leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the window like the question barely registered. “Oh, you know me,” he said with a shrug. “Always around when your old partner calls at three o’clock in the morning.”
Charlotte looked at him over the rim of her cup. “That’s not an answer.”
He smiled, unbothered, and took a slow sip from his cup before meeting her eyes. “I’m here to help you with the job. That’s what matters.”
She studied him for a long second. Same charm. Same deflection. Like no time had passed at all. “Still dodging questions,” she said. “Some things never change.”
Graham smiled that maddening, familiar grin. “And some things shouldn’t. Keeps life interesting.”
She studied him. He looked tired but grounded. Like someone who’d found a way to live with his ghosts. She hadn’t. Not yet. She reached into her coat and slid a photo in an evidence bag across the table. The Polaroid.
Graham stared at it for a long time before picking it up. “I remember this,” he said quietly. “Interrogation Room 2. You were pressing Ward. He wasn’t giving us anything.”
Charlotte nodded. “Someone left it on my night table while I slept. Then, a few minutes later, after I cleared the house, I found it pinned to my hallway mirror with a knife. After that, they called my house. Forensics found a registration card for Ward’s alias from the Holloway Motel. Nothing triggered the alarm.
“That’s how it started. Then, last night, Henry Byron was left near death on my back porch. The medical team did their best, but he died in front of me. Molly is doing the post-mortem this morning.”
Graham looked up sharply. “Jesus, Char.”
“I didn’t know who else to call,” she said.
His eyes were hard now, calculating. “You think this is from Ward?”
“I don’t think. I know. But I don’t understand how.”
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his beard. “He’s still inside.”
“I’m not sure that matters anymore.”
Graham didn’t argue, just stared at her for a long time. Then, finally, he said, “You still trust me?”
Charlotte met his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
He nodded slowly. “Alright then. Let’s see what the bastard wants. Want to take a ride?”
She nodded.
They finished their coffee in silence. The kind of silence that didn’t press—just filled the space. They ordered two cups to go, hit the restrooms, and walked out into the morning cold.
Charlotte unlocked her SUV with a click. Graham didn’t hesitate. He slid into the passenger seat like he’d never stopped riding shotgun beside her. That detail struck her more than it should have. He didn’t ask, didn’t argue. She always drove.
They left the diner with the kind of quiet that didn't need filling. She didn’t look back.
She pulled out onto the highway, hands steady on the wheel even though her chest felt tight. “Last I heard,” she said, “Ward was in the hospital ward. You think we should let them know we’re coming?” She glanced at him, already knowing what his answer would be.
He shook his head. “So they can tell us not to? No way. I want to see his cell. Meet his cellmate. Talk to the COs.”
That old sharpness in his tone—it was familiar. Reassuring in a way she wasn’t ready to admit. She gave the faintest smile. “We have a plan then.”
Silence returned, but not the kind that settled. This one shifted and tugged at the edges. Then, as they hit the long, flat stretch outside Waverly Junction, Graham spoke again. “How are the girls? I read about Olivia, Sophie, Izzy, and Ruth in the papers.” A pause. “I’m sorry, Char.”
She kept her eyes on the road, blinked once to clear the sting behind them. “Molly didn’t make the papers. Thank God. She had her own hell.”
“Are they okay?”
“They’re scarred. But they’re survivors.”
She felt him nod beside her before saying, “Well… look at their mom.”
That hit harder than she expected. She swallowed against it.
“And though I never met Chuck,” he added, “I’m sure they’ve got some of him in them too.”
Charlotte’s mouth lifted, just a little. “We were in the middle of planning Liv’s wedding when this all started.” Her voice softened. “She’s engaged to a fire captain. Jackson Reynolds.”
“Brave guy,” Graham said. “Coming into the family of the Everhart ladies.”
She nodded once. “The girls and I were out to dinner when another tidbit happened. Flowers showed up at the table. A card. White gardenias.”
Even without looking, she felt the way he went still. “Damn it,” he muttered.
Then: “Why don’t you have a protection detail?”
She didn’t answer.
He turned toward her, voice harder now. “You ditched your detail.”
Charlotte didn’t deny it. Just kept her eyes forward and gave a half shrug.
He made a low sound—half frustrated, half exhausted—and started singing “My Way” under his breath.
That got a smile out of her. Barely. But it was something.
“Talk to me, Char,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “If I’m doing this with you, I need to know what I’m walking into.”
She hesitated. Then, slowly: “Molly’s married to Ethan Hayes. FBI. Resident agency head. They’ve got a son, Wyatt.”
“Okay.”
“Izzy’s engaged to Brad Killian. District Commander, Highway Patrol.”
He gave a short exhale.
“Ruth’s with Noah Kaldor. Assistant U.S. Attorney.”
Charlotte saw him glance at her from the corner of her eye.
“So you’ve pissed off two federal and one state agency,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Just kept driving. The silence grew heavier. And then, the question came, same as it always had with him—blunt, well-aimed. “Char… who are you really worried about upsetting?”
Her grip tightened on the wheel. He still read her like a damn book. Even after fifteen years.
She took a breath, long and steady, and let it out. “Alex Marcel.” The name tasted different coming out now. She hadn’t said it out loud since she left the house. “He’s another Assistant U.S. Attorney,” she added.
“Does he know where you are?”
She shook her head. “No.”
There was a pause, then his voice, sharper now. “Damn it, Charlotte.”
She felt the heat in her face rise—not from embarrassment, but from knowing he was right.
“The last thing I want,” he said, voice tight, “is to be pulled into a domestic situation. And the first thing I don’t need is to end up explaining why I’m in your damn car in a BOLO.”
Her jaw clenched.
“And I definitely don’t need a pissed-off fed thinking I kidnapped his girlfriend.”
She opened her mouth to protest—It’s not like that—but he was already reaching for her purse.
“Graham—”
“Call him. Now.”
He pulled out her phone, tapped in her code without hesitation. “Still using your shield number.”
She looked over.
“Twelve missed calls,” he said, ignoring the question. “All your girls. Their guys. And two from a contact named Mr. Christmas.” He smirked faintly. “Can’t wait to hear that story.” He hit the name and put the phone on speaker.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then: “Charlotte?” Alex’s voice burst through, frantic, barely restrained. “Where the hell are you?”
Graham handed her the phone.
Charlotte held it close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Hi.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then, a low, shaky breath—like he was trying to rein it all back in. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m safe. I’m with someone I trust.”
Another breath. He didn’t respond right away. She could picture him—jaw locked, eyes flaring, pacing wherever he was. Trying not to lose it.
“I’m sorry,” she added. “I should’ve told you. I just… couldn’t.”
Alex didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quieter: “I woke up, and you were gone.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. “I know.”
“You scared the hell out of me. You’re still scaring the hell out of me.”
Her throat tightened. “I know,” she said again. “I’m sorry.”
Graham stayed silent beside her, letting the words fall between them. But she knew what he was thinking. She didn’t need to hear it.
Alex said it: “Not sorry enough to stop yourself.”
She already knew what it looked like—taking off in the dark, not calling, leaving people to piece it together.
She’d done it before. She’d done it to Graham.
But this time, it was different. This time, she wasn’t just running toward a case.
She was trying not to lose everything she’d finally started to build.
And she wasn’t sure if she was too late.
Alex stood in the middle of the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.
The pause in her voice—someone. He already knew who.
Graham Cullen. It didn’t take a genius to put it together.
She’d mentioned him. Her old partner. The one she hadn’t seen in over fifteen years.
The one who knew all the corners of her she rarely let anyone touch.
The one who worked the Ward case with her.
Alex clenched his jaw. The need to say what he really felt—that she didn’t trust me enough to tell me, that it makes me feel shut out and stupid and small—it was right there, but it came out as something else instead.
“Where are you?” he asked.
She hesitated. That hesitation stung.
“We’re on our way to Sioux Falls,” she said eventually. “To the penitentiary.”
His stomach dropped. “You’re going to see Ward?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus, Charlotte.” He exhaled hard, trying to swallow down the frustration. “You didn’t think maybe I should know about that before you drive across the state with a ghost from your past?”
“I didn’t want to drag you into it.”
“I’m already in it!” he snapped, louder than he meant to. He lowered his voice. “You brought this to me. Someone called your house to speak to me. Left a man on your porch. Left you a Polaroid from a thirty-year-old case. This isn’t just your problem anymore.”
“I know that.” Her voice was tight. Tired.
Alex ran a hand through his hair, pacing again. He stopped by the kitchen window, watching Bailey lying in the yard like it was any other morning. But nothing about this felt normal.
“You trust him more than me?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“It's not about trust, Alex.”
“It feels like it.”
She went quiet again. That silence said too much.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to push her. Didn’t want to be that guy. But, goddammit, she’d walked out without a word. He wasn’t just her boyfriend—he was standing in the blast zone of her past, and she hadn’t even warned him.
“I’m not mad that you went to him,” he said finally. “I’m mad that you went without telling me. That you left me waking up thinking someone had taken you. Or worse.”
Charlotte’s voice dropped low. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was choosing him over you.”
“But you did.” And that truth hung between them, raw and real.
“I need you to let me in, Char,” he added, quieter now. “Not just when things are safe. Not just when it’s over. I can’t be the guy who gets what’s left after you’ve handled it all alone.”
There was a pause before, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ll call you after we see him. And I’ll tell you everything.”
Alex nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see him. “Good.” A beat. “I love you, you know,” he said. “Even when I want to throttle you.”
She let out a small laugh. “I know.”
The line went quiet. And even though the call ended, the tension didn’t leave him. He stared at the phone in his hand, knowing something had just shifted. The question now was whether they’d still be standing when the dust settled.