CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jennifer hadn’t realized just how tired she was until the chopper hit cruising altitude and her eyes felt heavy, finally giving way to sleep. Rush covered her with a blanket and turned to smile at Dan.
“Little Jenn is all grown up,” he grinned.
“I think she’s been grown for a while,” smirked Dan. “We should have known that she took out the tracker. We have to find a way to fix that little problem.”
“I’m sure Montana and the team are working on it now,” nodded Rush. When the internal screens lit up with Hiro’s face, they knew he’d been listening.
“We are working on a solution to that but just thought you’d want to know that Cesar Moreau and thirty-one men were arrested this morning by Interpol agents. The French had their heads up their asses because he owned them. Heads are seriously going to roll for this.”
“Was Lacroix among them?” asked Rush.
“No. He is still nowhere to be found. The team knows and will be continuing their search for him.”
“Thanks, Hiro. We’ll be home in a few hours.”
The two men looked at Jennifer, still sound asleep and leaned back in their seats. They would let Ham and the others decide whether or not to tell her. If they did, they’d then have to make sure she didn’t try to go back.
The Osprey rolled to a stop beneath a pale afternoon sky, and Jennifer Sculler remained seated long after the tires had quit humming.
Six years and four months had passed since she had last seen the small private airfield, yet the hangar roofs, the wet marshy swamp around her, and the line of cottonwoods beyond the fence struck her with the force of something remembered in a dream.
Through the oval window she saw a cluster of women waiting beside the stairs. They held no signs and waved no banners. They simply stood close together, hands clasped or pressed to their mouths, as if any sudden movement might frighten the moment away.
Erica stood at the front, smaller than Jennifer remembered and somehow stronger, her silver-streaked hair lifting in the prop wash.
Beside her was Violet Michaels, one arm braced around Erica’s waist. Harlow, Finley, Casey, Brooke, and Chelsea formed a half circle behind them, all seven women staring at the opening door.
Jennifer rose on uncertain legs. She had crossed borders with forged papers, slept in rooms where every sound meant danger, and talked her way past men who carried guns as casually as wallets. None of it had prepared her to walk down twelve metal steps toward her mother.
Erica reached her before her shoes touched the tarmac. The embrace folded Jennifer inward, reducing those missing years to the span between one heartbeat and the next. Jennifer tried to say, “I’m home,” but the words dissolved against her mother’s shoulder.
The others closed around them. Violet kissed Jennifer’s temple.
Harlow caught her hand; Finley held the other.
Casey and Brooke pressed close through laughter and tears, while Chelsea rubbed slow circles between Jennifer’s shoulder blades.
Their welcome was gentle but absolute, a living wall between her and everything she had survived.
Her knees buckled without warning. No one let her fall. They steadied her, took her small carry-on, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and guided her away from the plane as though escorting a wounded queen.
“There are more people waiting inside the cafeteria,” Erica told her. “Only people you know. Only people who love you.” Jennifer’s fingers tightened around hers.
“How many?”
“Enough to for a small army,” Brooke said softly. Violet lifted a hand before anyone could crowd closer.
“And every one of them can wait. We go at Jennifer’s pace.”
“Slow sounds good,” Jennifer whispered.
“Slow it is,” Chelsea said, taking the carry-on from Finley. “No speeches, no surprises, and nobody hugs you without asking.”
They did not take her to a conference room or an office.
They led her into the cafeteria, where the lights were warm and the long tables had been pushed together.
Steam rose from bowls of chicken soup, platters of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and a dish of macaroni and cheese that Jennifer recognized as her mother’s.
The room stood when she entered. Jennifer froze beneath the weight of their joy, but no one rushed her. One by one, they said her name, and the sound of it—spoken kindly, spoken without demand—brought fresh tears to her eyes.
They seated her between Erica and Violet. Someone placed soup before her, and Erica buttered a slice of bread the way she had when Jennifer was a child.
“The crust still has to come off?” Jennifer asked. Erica’s mouth trembled.
“You used to claim it was poisonous.”
“I was eight.”
“You were dramatic at eight,” Violet said. “Some things survive years.” Violet nudged the bowl closer.
“Three bites, sweetheart. Then we’ll stop mothering you for at least thirty seconds.”
Jennifer hadn’t realized how this would affect her. Being home. Being hugged by the women she loved the people she loved. She’d stayed strong for so long. For what? Ego? To prove a point? She hated herself for not trusting them and coming home sooner.
She managed three spoonfuls before emotion closed her throat, but the heat settled into her, convincing her body at last that the journey was over.
For a while, conversation stayed safely ordinary.
“The Sugar Lodge roof is leaking,” Brooke said.
“Only over my desk,” Casey added. Chelsea pointed at Harlow.
“And she lost her keys in a flowerpot,” she snickered, trying to relax the conversation. Ashley had said not to push, not to ask questions.
“I planted them for safekeeping,” Harlow protested. Finley leaned toward Jennifer.
“She watered them twice.” Jennifer laughed, a startled sound that made every woman at the table smile.
“I missed all of you,” she said.
“We missed you louder,” Casey answered.
Then Violet quietly asked whether Grayson would be returning soon. Jennifer looked toward the far end of the cafeteria, where several men stood around a laptop and two radios. Grayson was not among them.
“He and the others stayed to find, to find him,” she said with a clenched jaw.
“I need to tell you what happened,” Jennifer said. Erica covered her hand with both of hers.
“You don’t owe us the story tonight.”
“Or ever,” Violet added. Jennifer looked around the table.
“If I don’t say it now, he keeps owning the silence.” Finley’s expression hardened.
“Then say only what you choose.”
“We’ll listen,” Brooke told her. “We won’t interrupt.” Casey glanced toward the men in the corner.
“And if you need us to stop, you say the word.” Jennifer drew a careful breath.
“Stay close,” she said.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Erica promised.
“His name is Kyle Lacroix,” Jennifer said. The name landed hard in the warm room. “He found me after months of watching the routes I used, the contacts I trusted, and the shelters where women disappeared from his reach.” Chelsea’s face went still.
“He followed you that long?”
“Longer than I knew. I thought I’d escaped after, after the attack in the alley. I thought he was one of those inside the nightclub that burned down. He wasn’t there that night. Somehow, he knew it was me.” Harlow reached across the table.
“Did he hurt anyone else to get to you?” Jennifer swallowed.
“He tried. That’s why I kept moving. It’s why I kept working for the agency and saving those women and children.
At the time, I didn’t know he was still alive.
In truth, I’d nearly forgotten everything about him.
It was dark in the alley and I only saw glimpses of him.
When he pretended to be a priest, I knew something was familiar about him. ” Violet’s voice was quiet and fierce.
“You should never have had to carry that alone.”
Jennifer described the attack without giving it more power than truth required.
She talked about how her friend insisted on staying in the club but she left, alone.
It was stupid, she knew it but she just wanted out of there.
Her friend left later with several other girls.
But Jennifer had left alone and the two men followed.
“He wanted me afraid enough to stop,” she said. “For a time, I was. But fear and surrender are not the same thing.” Across the room, Ham and Rush turned, staring at her as if they’d heard every word. Their hands tightened on the back of a chair, and one of the men began typing faster.
Finley waited until Jennifer’s breathing steadied.
“How did you remain hidden for so long?” Jennifer glanced at the women surrounding her and gave a tired, crooked smile.
“I pretended to be a nun.” For one startled second no one spoke. Then Casey blinked.
“An actual nun?”
“A very unofficial one. Sister Irene.” Brooke leaned forward.
“Please tell me you had the whole outfit.”
“Habit, veil, sensible shoes.” Harlow pressed a hand to her chest.
“Jennifer Sculler in sensible shoes may be the least believable part of this story.”
The disguise had begun as a desperate improvisation. The nuns who had rescued her offered a place to heal. Later it became more. A borrowed habit, forged travel papers, and enough knowledge of prayers to pass casual scrutiny.
Later it became an identity that opened doors to convent kitchens, rural clinics, and church-run shelters where traffickers rarely expected anyone to question them.
Under that borrowed veil, Jennifer had carried messages between advocates, helped young women reach safe transportation, and documented names, license plates, and bank transfers.
She never claimed vows she had not taken; she simply allowed dangerous men to see what they expected and overlook the woman working against them.
Harlow gave a breathless laugh.
“You spent six years fighting traffickers dressed as a nun?” Jennifer’s smile softened.
“Not all six. I did finish college during all of this. Sometimes I was a nurse, a translator, or a widow.”
“A widow?” Chelsea asked.
“It discouraged questions.” Casey shook her head.
“I have known you for almost twenty years of my life, and apparently I have never known you at all.”
“You knew the important parts,” Jennifer said. Finley raised an eyebrow.
“And the nun?”
“She was the only one who never got asked to dance.” Brooke lifted her water glass.
“To sensible shoes and unanswered invitations.”
The laughter that followed was careful at first, then real. It did not erase the attack or the years apart. It made space beside them for relief, and Jennifer felt something inside her loosen.
She looked again toward the men working in the corner.
“There’s one more thing,” she said. “I have loved Grayson Michaels for years. Through every false name and every night I thought I might not come back, that never changed.
“We’re getting married,” she announced, “and I need help planning this wedding.” They all knew they were going to get married. They’d heard the news and they were thrilled but they needed to let Jennifer say it out loud.
Violet made a sound halfway between a sob and a cheer.
“My son finally got something right.”
“When?” demanded Erica.
“What are you wearing?” Finley added. Casey held up both hands.
“One crisis at a time. First, do we have a date?”
“Do we have flowers?” Harlow countered. Chelsea pulled a napkin toward her.
“Do we have food?” Jennifer stared at them in delighted alarm.
“Do I get a vote?”
“A small one,” Violet said solemnly, and the table erupted in laughter. Within minutes, napkins became planning paper.
“September,” Violet declared. “Gold leaves, candlelight, no mosquitoes.” Erica shook her head.
“The old glass chapel,” Brooke suggested.
“Too many windows,” Casey said. “Harlow will turn it into a greenhouse.”
“You say that like it’s a flaw,” Harlow replied. Chelsea began a food list. “Soup is comforting, but no one serves soup at a wedding.”
“I would,” Jennifer said.
“Then you’re banned from catering decisions,” Chelsea answered. Finley tapped the napkin.
“Before we choose anything, Jennifer gets to tell us what she wants.” Jennifer laughed until tears blurred the handwritten notes.
“Small,” she insisted. “Well. Small by Belle Fleur standards. Just our friends and family. Warm, simple, and soon.”
“How soon?” Erica asked.
“Before any of you turn this into a royal coronation.” Violet looked offended. “I love you all but I want Grayson to help make these decisions. We wait until he’s back. When we can put all of this behind us? After I’ve had a few sessions with Ashley or Bree.”
Beyond their circle, the men remained gathered in the corner. A map glowed on the laptop screen, marked with rail lines, border crossings, and locations Jennifer had named.
“Everything okay over here?” asked Rush. Jennifer nodded with a smile.
“Thank you for coming to get me, Rush. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this.”
He nodded, returning to the group of men. He did not tell Jennifer that a possible sighting had come in from two counties away, nor that a vehicle linked to Kyle had been found abandoned. He simply stood where she could see him and the others, a sense of security she hadn’t known she needed.
Jennifer understood there was still danger. She could see it in the coded looks exchanged across the room and hear it in the clipped voices near the radios. But for the first time in years, danger was not hers to face alone.
As evening settled beyond the cafeteria windows, Erica refilled Jennifer’s bowl.
“One more spoonful.”
“You said three,” Jennifer reminded her.
“That was six years ago,” Erica said. Violet folded another napkin into a list.
“Ivory or white?”
“Blue,” Jennifer answered. “Can a wedding dress be blue?”
“It can now,” Finley said. “We’ll get Gwen to show you some designs. She’ll be thrilled to do this for you.”
Chelsea argued for lemon cake while Casey defended chocolate, and Harlow insisted flowers should smell like the first day of summer. Claudette stepped forward, pulling Jennifer into a hug.
“You’re home now, child. You’re safe and you’re with those who love you. All this wedding talk can happen later.” Claudette gave a look to the women that said, ‘leave this alone for now’. They didn’t dare argue.
In the corner, the search for Kyle tightened mile by mile. At the center of it all, Jennifer closed her eyes, thinking of Grayson’s big hands on her body, the way he’d made love to her. She would hold onto that thought for the rest of her life, as it was the only thought that brought peace.