Chapter 30
Sirens and flashing lights swallowed the marina within minutes.
Local police arrived first, followed closely by FBI vehicles that rolled in hard enough to spray gravel across the lot. Uniforms, agents, EMTs, questions—organized chaos replacing the isolation of the channel.
Julia sat wrapped in a blanket on the rear bumper of an SUV while a paramedic examined the bruising around her throat and wrists.
Each new mark revealed beneath the harsh emergency lights seemed to darken Leland’s mood further.
He sat beside her through all of it, silent, seething, and watching every hand that touched her.
The paramedic remained professional, though Julia noticed he became noticeably gentler once Leland’s attention locked onto him.
She answered questions when she had to. Her name, age, medical history, and whether Strickland had assaulted her further after the abduction.
No. Thank God.
Exhaustion settled heavier with every passing minute. Her body still hadn’t stopped trembling completely, adrenaline leaving her cold despite the warm night air.
She refused to go to the hospital as a precaution. The paramedic nodded, not overly concerned about her decision, but he made her sign a release.
He looked at Leland next. “What about you, sir? You’re guarding that shoulder.”
As if he hadn’t noticed, he glanced down at it. “No need,” he said, clipped and firm.
The paramedic didn’t second-guess him and quickly packed up his emergency kit.
By the time Agents Keene and Price approached, focusing on the conversation felt almost impossible. Keene crouched in front of her, his tone careful. “I know this isn’t ideal timing, but we need an initial statement tonight.”
Price remained standing beside him. “The sooner we lock the timeline down, the better.”
“No,” Leland said immediately.
Price’s gaze shifted toward him. “Hale—”
“You’ve got the suspect in custody, the scene is secured, and there’s enough evidence to keep him buried for the foreseeable future,” Leland cut in evenly. “She’s exhausted. You can get your formal statement tomorrow.”
Price crossed his arms. “Memories get less reliable the longer we wait.”
“And trauma victims stop cooperating entirely when they’re pushed too hard,” Leland countered.
That brought a brief silence.
Honestly? Even if they insisted, Julia didn’t think she could.
Her head hurt. Her body ached. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the photographs of women who weren’t as lucky as her lined neatly along a wall.
The thought of that lock of hair tied with ribbon, her own photo o be added to the collection made her feel sick.
Her hand rose to her temple, feeling the strands inches shorter than the others. That was how close she’d come.
A shudder swept through her, not violent but impossible to suppress. Agent Keene saw it, his eyes sympathetic. But Leland felt it. He shifted closer, arms flexing tighter.
“I’ll bring her in tomorrow,” he said.
Not up for discussion. The decision had already been made.
Keene studied him briefly before rising to his feet. “Tomorrow morning,” he agreed.
Price looked considerably less satisfied with the arrangement, but he didn’t argue further and walked away with his partner.
“Thank you,” Julia whispered.
The words barely made it out before her body sagged against him, too tired to hold her head up.
“I’m taking you home,” he said, rising with her in his arms.
She clung to his neck and let her head fall to his shoulder, a soft breath slipping out.
Heads turned as Leland carried her through the crowded marina. Uniformed officers stepped aside while reporters surged forward behind the barricade, camera flashes harsh in the darkness.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Was this the work of the serial stalker?”
“Mr. Devlin! How long have your investigators been involved?”
Leland ignored it all, made easier by the team closing ranks around them. Dev and Alec moved ahead, clearing a space through the crowd while Rhys and Callan flanked behind them, scanning constantly.
Without breaking stride, Leland stepped over the yellow police tape. Held securely against his chest, Julia buried her face in the side of his neck, shutting everything out.
***
He took her home—not to her place but his, a decision made somewhere between the SUV and his front door without discussion or explanation.
Julia didn’t argue; she didn’t have the energy.
The truth was, she didn’t want to be alone.
From the way Leland still held onto her hand, she didn’t think he could bear it either.
The house was dark when they stepped inside, untouched since they’d left it. Leland didn’t bother with more light than he needed, guiding her down the hall with a sure hand that said letting her slip away wasn’t an option.
As far as she was concerned, it wasn’t.
“Shower?” he asked.
Her first instinct was to say no; she just needed to sleep.
But she felt the phantom pressure of Strickland’s fingers moving through her hair, the cold snick of scissors, the strange weightlessness where a piece of her had been taken.
The smell of him still lingered on her skin and clothes—boat fuel, oil, and his cologne, cloying with a synthetic sweetness that made the other smells worse in combination.
She’d been trying not to notice it since they left the dock. She hadn’t succeeded once.
“Yes,” she said.
She didn’t second-guess him following her. It was simply the way things needed to be.
He turned the water on and adjusted until steam rose and the mirror fogged.
She undressed and stepped in. She stood still under the warm spray as it eased the ache in her shoulders from having her wrists cuffed behind her for so long.
When she tipped her head back, the water in her hair felt like fingers.
Not Leland’s. His. Working through the strands with proprietary patience before the scissors came.
Julia shuddered, and her legs went weak beneath her without warning. She put one hand flat against the tile, and it wasn’t enough.
Suddenly, Leland was there. Steady, solid, and still fully dressed. He moved her gently away from the spray, bracing her against his chest. Taking charge because she needed him to.
“Can you hang on for another minute?” he asked gently.
“As long as you’re here,” she said, wrapping her weak arms around him.
He reached for the shampoo, and when his hands moved through her hair, slowly, working up a lather, she concentrated on the weight of his palms, the deliberate pressure of his fingertips against her scalp—careful, unhurried, nothing like before.
She smiled faintly, too tired for more, at his warmth, the steadiness, and the care.
His hands suddenly stilled. And she knew what he’d found, the hair cut close and uneven. She felt the change move through him, a force that gathered and then locked down again, and she understood what it cost him.
His hands resumed, just as carefully as before, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.
When he rinsed her hair, he cupped his hands and directed the water away from her face.
Leland picked up the body wash and squirted a generous amount onto the scrubby. He worked it into a lather and ran it over her shoulders with the same attention he’d given her hair. She stood still and let him, aware of how strange it was to be tended to. Strange, but not unwelcome.
Leland found the bruises on her throat first. Lowering his head, he grazed his lips over them, a tender, almost-imperceptible contact that felt incredibly soothing and brought a wave of calm.
He moved on to the one on her ribs and another on her hips that she didn’t recall getting.
Her wrists were worse. The marks there were a dark purple, the skin still angry from the ropes.
He cradled her hands, bringing each wrist to his mouth with the same tenderness.
He didn’t say a word, but the distinction between who had made those marks and who was touching them now, moved through her like a door unlocking.
The hot water was fading before he turned off the shower. When she stepped out, he was already holding the towel and wrapped it around her. He took a second towel and dried her hair—not rough, not fast, with the same gentleness.
When he was satisfied, he stood, went to the hook on the door, and returned with one of his T-shirts. He didn’t hand it to her to put on. He gathered the hem, dropped it over her head, guided her arms through, and tugged the hem past her hips. Something in that small adjustment touched her.
He held out the hairbrush. “Get into bed,” he said. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
She took the brush and went.
As she crossed into the bedroom, she heard the slap of wet denim on the tile floor behind her. The sound pulled her briefly into that moment, when he’d stepped beneath the spray because she needed him there. Men determined to keep their distance didn’t do things like that.
Neither did men who felt nothing.
***
Leland watched her go. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t.
She climbed into his bed without hesitation. Like she belonged there now. Like she’d decided, and that was the end of it.
He absorbed that for exactly one second. Then his mind went to Strickland.
He wanted him here. Wanted his hands around his throat. Wanted him to struggle and suffer, to understand her terror for once.
Leland’s jaw clenched until it ached. But he breathed through it. She’d been through enough. She didn’t need the version of him that wanted blood. So, he locked it down, all of it.
He’d already shed his soaked jeans. He stripped the rest and walked into the bedroom.
She was sitting at the edge of the mattress, the brush in her hand, arms tired. Not moving.
He crossed to her without a word and took the brush from her fingers.
She didn’t protest when he sat behind her and worked slowly through the tangled strands. He started at the ends, no pulling, no rush. Her silence deepened, her shoulders drooping with exhaustion.
Leland couldn’t stop the surge of anger when he found the jagged spot near her temple again. The bastard had taken it from her and turned it into a fucking trophy. Rage burned through him, but he kept the brush moving, his hand steady. She didn’t need to feel him shake.
When her hair lay in a sleek curtain and his temper had finally eased, he set the brush on the nightstand and stretched out on the bed. She remained where she was, swaying slightly, too tired to move. He reached up and drew her down beside him.
Julia went without resistance. Fitted against him like she was made for him. Why hadn’t he noticed before now? Or maybe he had and refused to see it.
His arm tightened around her, anchoring her in place as if he could prevent anything from taking her again.
“Sleep,” he whispered against her head.
She was quiet only for a moment. “Will you stay?”
“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
She relaxed against him and, in seconds, fell asleep. The kind that wasn’t rest so much as shutdown.
Leland didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, the dark pressing in around him, her weight against him the only thing grounding him in the moment.
But his mind wouldn’t shut off. He kept picturing the room where Strickland had held her. The narrow iron bed, eyebolts embedded in the frame.
What if he’d been too late? The thought returned again and again, sharper each time. If Callan had taken longer. If Greta hadn’t left her phone on the boat. If—
He cut it off and refused to picture what he could’ve walked into instead. Because this time, it hadn’t happened. He hadn’t lost her.
The realization settled slowly. For the first time in forty-one years, something had gone wrong—badly wrong—and he wasn’t standing alone in the aftermath.
Julia stirred. It was subtle. A slight change in her breathing.
He moved his hand along her spine, trying to soothe her, but she jerked awake, her hand coming up searching. He caught it, threading his fingers through hers.
“I’m here,” he said, low and soothing. “You’re safe.”
Her grip tightened. Hard. She pressed closer. Still tense. Still holding on.
Leland shifted slightly, his free hand moving over her again. “Want to talk about it?” he murmured. “It might help.”
There was a pause. Then she quietly explained, “I wasn’t dreaming about him.”
That caught him off guard. “No?”
She shook her head against his chest, her voice smaller now. “I woke up and…”
“And?”
Her fingers twisted in the sheet across his belly. “You were gone.”
The words hit with brutal accuracy. That was what she’d come to expect from him. No more.
Leland pulled her closer, one hand sliding into her hair. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She didn’t answer right away.
Then— “Promise?”
Without hesitation, he replied, “Yes.”
Quiet. Certain. Final.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
She settled down after that. Not completely relaxed but enough. Her breathing evened out. Her grip loosened just slightly. Still holding on.
Leland stayed awake long after she drifted off to sleep. He listened to the soft sounds she made. Felt the warmth of her curled against him. Every so often, his hand glided over her, a small reassurance he couldn’t seem to stop seeking. After tonight, he wasn’t sure if the need would ever stop.
The fight inside him was gone now. No more distance or excuses. No more pretending he could walk away before this became real.
That had happened somewhere along the way.
Maybe the night she shut her apartment door in his face, and he’d stood there wanting to break it down.
Maybe when she soaked him with soapsuds in his kitchen and giggled, unaware she was dismantling him piece by piece.
Or tonight in the shower, when she’d looked at him like he was the only thing holding her together.
Or maybe long before any of that, the first time she put her hand in his with trust in her eyes.
All he knew was that losing her would destroy him. And despite every instinct telling him to run from the truth—she was worth the risk.
As the first hint of morning touched the edges of the room, Leland stopped fighting what he felt. And for the first time in years, he let himself see a future instead of just survival.