Epilogue
MARSHALL
SIX MONTHS LATER
The rooftop of the new Black Tower Miami office wasn’t finished yet—half the railings were temporary, and someone still needed to install the real lighting—but Marshall already loved it.
The air carried the clean bite of ocean wind and the faint perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the streets below.
The sky was clearer here than in Alexandria, wide and sharp-edged, stars scattered like God had tossed them by hand.
He stood at the ledge anyway, because this was where his thoughts always pulled him at the end of the day.
Six months. Six months since Geneva. Six months since Jackson vanished between one breath and the next.
The ache wasn’t a wound anymore—it had become a weight he carried with practiced steadiness. It was both a reminder and a promise. A constant prayer.
He braced his palms against the warm concrete, letting the night air fill his lungs. He wasn’t running from grief anymore. He wasn’t drowning in fear. But part of him was still missing, and he felt that absence every time he looked at the sky and the ocean spreading out in front of him.
Footsteps approached behind him—lighter this time, confident, familiar.
“You didn’t even pretend you were coming back downstairs,” Norah said, lips curving as she joined him at the ledge. “Is this where you escape to avoid writing tomorrow’s incident brief?”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Absolutely. You think I want to document the fact that Tank broke the coffee maker during a bet with Pierce? Again?”
“That’s fair.” Norah bumped her hip against his. “But next time, I’m bringing snacks. Rooftop paperwork party.”
He turned toward her then, taking in the sight that still felt like a miracle. Norah, hair pulled back by the breeze, Black Tower badge clipped to her belt, eyes bright even in the dim rooftop lights. Analyst by day. Anchor by night. The woman who had turned his life right side up.
“You like Miami?” he asked softly, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.
She smiled in that way that tugged directly at his chest. “I like Miami with you.”
Warmth spread through him, steady and certain. They were building something here—something new, something lasting. A new Black Tower office. A new beginning. A future neither of them had dared to imagine six months ago.
Her hand slipped into his. “You thinking about him?”
Always.
Marshall nodded. “Some days I feel closer to trusting God with all of it. And then there are days like today, when I look at the horizon and wonder if Jackson’s looking at the same one.”
Norah leaned her head against his shoulder. “Wherever he is, he’s not alone. You carry him every day.”
His throat tightened. “I just want him safe.”
“He will be.” She said it with quiet conviction. “And he’ll find his way back.”
They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in silence and the hum of Miami nightlife far below.
Senator Morris’s voice drifted faintly from a billboard screen across the street—another campaign ad, another speech about national security failures and leadership.
Sixteen months until presidential elections, and she was clawing her way onto every channel, every feed.
Ross warned that the next year would be uglier than any of them liked.
But tonight, none of it mattered.
Tonight was about her. Them.
“Norah,” he said softly.
Her eyes softened at the sound of her name in that voice.
He took her hands, the entire world narrowing to just the two of them on an unfinished rooftop in a new city with a future wide open before them.
“I used to think life had to be perfect before you could ask someone to spend the rest of it with you,” he said, voice steady, honest. “That everything had to be safe and certain. But then you walked back into my life and reminded me that some things—some people—are worth choosing in the middle of the storm.”
Her breath caught, shoulders lifting faintly.
“You’re the calm in mine,” he continued. “You’re my home, Norah Winslow. And I don’t want another day to go by without you knowing that I’m choosing you. Every morning. Every night. Every mission. Every part of whatever comes next.”
He reached for the small box he’d been carrying for weeks, tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket like a secret he was almost afraid to believe in.
Norah’s eyes widened.
He opened it.
A simple ring. Classic and elegant.
“Marry me,” Marshall whispered. He probably should have phrased it like a question, but he wasn’t giving her extra room to refuse.
For a heartbeat, she just stared down at him, eyes shining like wet stars.
Then she let out a choked laugh that sounded like joy breaking open. “Yes,” she breathed. “Marshall—yes.”
The relief that swept through him was sharp, overwhelming. He slid the ring onto her finger, hands shaking just slightly, and she pulled him in with a kiss that was warm and sure and absolutely full of forever.
When they finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. “You’re really stuck with me now.”
“Best decision I ever made,” he murmured.
Then, Marshall’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He frowned, pulling it out. No number. No routing information. No digital fingerprint at all—just an anonymous incoming message that bypassed every normal protocol.
Norah caught the shift in his breath. “Marshall?”
He opened the text.
Read it.
Read it again.
A slow, impossible, heart-punch of hope spread through his chest.
Congrats. Miami looks good on you both.
You better wait a while longer—I'm not missing the wedding.
Marshall’s breath shuddered out of him—half laugh, half prayer answered.
Norah’s eyes widened. “Is that—?”
“Yeah.” His voice thickened. “It’s him. Sneaky little—” He ran to the edge of the rooftop, as though he would catch Jackson dangling from a rope, eavesdropping on them. He looked out over the water and saw the red lights of a small boat moving across the water in the dark. Was that Jackson?
Only his brother would come close enough to risk a message. Only Jackson would keep it light to hide what it cost him. Only Jackson would send a line that said I see you. I’m alive. Keep going.
Norah pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tears bright with relief. “Marshall . . .”
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tight as the weight he’d carried for six months finally—finally—shifted.
“He’s alive,” Marshall murmured into her hair. “He’s coming back. He’s . . . okay.”
Not home. Not safe. Not finished.
But okay.
A knot unspooled in his chest, warm and fierce and full of faith restored.
Norah lifted her face, smiling through tears. “Told you he’d find a way.”
Marshall looked up at the sky, at the unwavering scatter of stars, and felt peace settle—real, steady, God-given.
Marshall wasn’t afraid anymore.
Not of the waiting. Not of the unknown. Not of the future. He wasn’t in control, and he was okay with that.
He felt God’s peace settling over him like a warm breath.
He typed a message back. Where are you? You can trust me.
But the message went nowhere.
“Come home soon, little brother,” he whispered. He had no intention of waiting very long to make Norah his wife. But he desperately wanted his brother to be standing next to him when he did.