EPILOGUE #2
I thought for a moment but not a second longer, and I shook my head. “Honestly, if anything, it's only brought us closer. More, um …” I furrowed my brow, searching for the word I needed, before uttering, “Connected, I guess.”
And it was the unbelievable truth—that the time I'd spent certain I would die, only to be spared and returned to the love of my life, didn’t do a damn thing to strain our relationship.
And I knew that it was built on gratitude—the same Mom and I had experienced after we were sure Dad would succumb to his injuries, but didn't.
Life was about living now, not dwelling in the past. And even when that spectral demon came to sit in the corner of my darkened bedroom, threatening to strip me naked and prove again and again that he held power over me, the love Meg and I held for each other always chased him away.
She kept me safe, as she had then in that prison, and in turn, my life, my protection, my time were hers and hers alone. Always. Forever.
Stephen nodded as if he could possibly understand what I was talking about, then said, “Do you mind me asking how you got out of there? How did you get away?”
I hadn't told anyone else about the man in the plague mask. There were inconsistencies in my story, the tale I'd told my family about my heroic escape, and I knew it. The details that didn't make sense. The questions I couldn't answer.
“How did you get out of the handcuffs?”
“How did you get here if you can't tell us where you were?”
“How did you get away from Ben, but you don't know if he's alive?”
But I'd given that man and his associates my word. I had no intentions whatsoever of telling anyone else about him or the way he and his brothers had collectively saved my life and returned me to the people I loved—and that included Stephen.
“I don't know,” I settled on this time. “I can't remember.”
He seemed perplexed at first, tipping his head and studying me for a moment, before dropping his gaze and giving me a nearly imperceptible nod. “The mind has an incredible way of protecting us,” he commented.
I thought about that night Batman—Abraham—had told me to go to the safest places, the memories that meant the most to me. To hide in them when I needed a place to go, when I needed the strength to survive.
One side of my mouth lifted upward as I sighed.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Yeah, it does.”
***
FIVE MONTHS LATER
Meghan was asleep after a long nineteen hours of exhausting labor. I brushed the curls off her forehead with one hand while my other arm was occupied with the tiny body of our daughter.
Helena Diane Mason.
Named after Meghan's grandmother, Helen Kinney, and Diane Mason, the grandmother I'd never had the chance to meet before she was murdered by the man responsible for my conception.
I took my place in the chair beside Meg's bed, cradling my baby girl in both arms and allowing my eyes to linger on hers, barely open and staring up at me with a little scowl on her wrinkled face, as if she wanted to ask, Who the hell are you? but without any way of doing so.
I smiled, giving her the tip of my finger to hold in her tiny grasp. Unable to believe that I could have any part in the creation of something so impossibly perfect, I softly began to hum a song I hardly remembered but all at once knew.
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine …”
“Wow.”
Startled, I looked up to see my parents, quietly tiptoeing into the hospital room. Mom's eyes were already watering as she came to crouch at my side, and Dad stood over me, his eyes wide with surprise.
I tipped my head with a silent question, and he replied in a choked voice, “I haven't heard that song in a long time.”
He didn't elaborate any further as he carefully bent to peer at the now-sleeping face of Helena.
“So, this is my granddaughter,” he muttered, his face full of wonder.
“She's beautiful,” Mom said, holding a hand over her heart.
“Yeah, she is,” I agreed. “You guys wanna hold her?”
I looked from Dad to Mom expectantly, but to my surprise, they both shook their heads.
“We will,” he promised. “But let her sleep now. We just wanted to stop in and say hi real quick. Let you know that we're here if you need us for anything.”
With a smile and a nod, I replied, “I know that.”
“Listen, even if you and Meg are like, Guys, we need you to come and get this baby so we can sleep for an hour, don't even hesitate to call, okay? And I'm sure Patrick and Kinsey would agree,” Mom said, reaching out to cup her palm against my cheek.
“Oh, yeah,” Dad said, chuckling softly. “Patrick can't wait to meet her. He said he'd be by later after his shift was over.”
Then he huffed another laugh, this one of disbelief as he rolled his eyes. “God, I can't believe I'm a grandpa with that guy. Holy hell. Who would've guessed that's where life was gonna take me when I rolled into this weird-ass town?”
Mom looked up at him, her eyes glinting with the same wonder and mirth as was reflected in his tone.
“You love it,” she said, offering a smile.
“Yeah,” he replied, nodding. “I guess I do. And, hey”—he clapped a gentle hand against my shoulder—“we love you, buddy, and we're so proud of you. Give us a call when you guys get home, all right?”
“Yeah, I will,” I promised. “I love you guys too.”
And what I didn't say, as he and Mom kissed the top of my head and took their leave, as I glanced into the sleeping faces of my wife and daughter, was that nobody was prouder of me than … well, me.
Because I was here.
Because I'd survived.
And I had done it all for them.
I would do anything for them.
***
SIX MONTHS LATER
“Are you sure we should be doing this?”
I steered the car down a long street in Marblehead, Massachusetts, and drove past the gas stations and big-box stores and fast-food restaurants that lined the road. I glanced across the car to meet the sky-blue eyes of my wife, her brows tipped and jaw clenched with worry.
In the backseat, our six-month-old daughter slept peacefully, unaware of the adventure she was on.
A few days ago, Meghan and I had taken the trip to Salem to visit with my aunt and uncle, to allow them the time to visit with Helena, their great-niece, without my mom gushing over her every two seconds.
I couldn't blame her for it, as the doting grandmother, but holy hell.
She never let that baby out of her sight whenever she was around—which, as you could imagine, was often.
And I didn't mind one bit. I just thought it was only right to give Aunt Stormy her own time with us, even if it was only for a week before we'd have to go home to River Canyon.
Today though, Aunt Stormy had to go to Salem Skin, the tattoo shop where she worked as a body piercer, and Uncle Charlie had to work in the cemetery, digging graves and mowing the extravagant lawn where he called home.
And I thought it'd be a good time to make a pit stop at The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home.
And maybe it was foolish and reckless to take along my wife and daughter to the place where I assumed Benjamin Nolan had learned of my snooping—from countless nights spent awake, mulling over the clues I'd had at my disposal.
But I had no intention of damning myself ever again.
I only wanted to say thank you—just once more—but this time, face-to-face.
I pulled the car into the parking lot, a wave of déjà vu sweeping over me as I chose the same spot I'd parked my car in over a year ago.
“Do you want us to come in?” Meg asked, though I could tell she didn't want to.
I knew she would if I asked, but I wouldn't request that of her.
Besides, I needed to do this alone.
“Stay here,” I told her. “Lock the car doors. Don't unlock them until I come back. And if you need it, my gun is in the glove compartment.”
She expressed no fear as she nodded.
Then I leaned across the car, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, before opening the door and quietly closing it behind me so as not to wake Helena.
Meg locked the doors immediately.
Satisfied, I turned toward the gothic Victorian and its wraparound porch, finding it the same as it'd been that Saturday all those months ago, when I'd made the acquaintance of Abraham and his brother Shawn.
I swallowed my trepidation as I approached the back entrance, half expecting to see the tall form of a figure in black, wearing a plague doctor mask.
But what pulled the air from my chest was when the back door opened to reveal a man in a black three-piece suit with a scarred face and white hair at his temples.
He closed the door behind him, walking with cool confidence to stand at the porch railing, where he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
He acknowledged me for only a moment with a flick of his steely glare before staring out toward the parking lot as he plucked a smoke from the pack and slipped it between his lips.
“Detective,” he said in a clear, gruff voice.
I heard it then, what the disguising Batman-esque tone had tried to hide, and with a humiliating rush of emotion, I climbed the porch steps to stand beside him.
“Mind if I bum one of those off of you?” I asked.
Without a word, he held the open pack out to me, and I selected one, pinching it between my fingers and waiting for the lighter as he pulled it from his breast pocket.
“I have to admit, Detective, I didn't expect to see you again after your unfortunate disappearance,” Abraham said, setting fire to the end of my cigarette, then his own. “Are you here on official business?”
I swallowed my nerves before taking a deep pull from the cigarette between my fingers, filling my lungs with smoke before releasing it into the sunlit day.
He was acting clueless, and I had to wonder to whose benefit that was for. His, my own … someone else? I wasn't sure. He must've known I'd investigate after he'd left me with that little clue—Genesis 18:23. He must have known I wouldn't leave that to rest. He had to know that I knew.
But I could play this game too.
I cleared my throat. “As it turns out, I'm pretty resilient,” I said, pulling the cigarette from my mouth and lowering my hand to rest at my side. “Anyway, I was in the area and thought I'd stop by and let you know my investigation into the death of Tomas Nolan has been dropped.”
“Glad to hear it,” Abraham replied without allowing his eyes to meet mine.
“And I suppose I can let you know that a man named Benjamin Nolan was arrested and charged with … a long list of crimes. Although … nobody ever figured out why he was in possession of a certain police officer’s belongings. Odd.”
“Very odd indeed,” I commented with a smirk.
Then I cleared my throat, putting an end to the topic as I said, “So, I got married. And we had a little girl six months ago.”
He grunted a sound of thoughtful acknowledgment as he puffed at the end of his cigarette.
“I'm officially a detective now,” I went on. “I got transferred to New London, doing real work, stopping bad guys and saving lives and not just rescuing kittens from trees … but”—I huffed a chuckle and shook my head at my own stupidity and impulsive tendencies—”you know, closer to home this time.”
I watched as the corner of his mouth barely lifted into an inconspicuous smile.
“I'm enjoying my life,” I told him, lowering my voice, turning to stand parallel to his tall frame. “I'm playing it as safe as I can in my line of work. But my life has been saved too many times for me to not pay it forward.”
He dipped his chin as he took a long, steady pull from his smoke. Then, as he exhaled and lowered his hand, he finally turned to me, his eyes landing heavily on mine.
“As I said, Detective … you are far from nobody,” he muttered, then winked before taking another puff, emptying his lungs and sending the ribbons of smoke swirling through his nostrils to vanish into the air.
Disappearing like every bit of evidence that somewhere out there, somewhere close, existed a man wearing a black three-piece suit, leather gloves, and a plague doctor mask.
Maybe I'll see him again, I thought as I lifted my eyes to study the profile of Abraham Crowley, head director at The Llewellyn Family Funeral Home.
Maybe we'll even work together.
I smirked, settling into the quiet of smoking with him on the wraparound porch, as I nodded to myself.
I hope so.