Chapter Thirty-Six
Isabela had finally come home. Not for a rushed dinner, or because a stalker made it impossible to sleep in her own bed, but because after everything, she wanted to. Coming home this time wasn’t an escape. It was a return.
The first thing she did after the Macklin case wrapped up was quit her job.
In true Isabela fashion, she gave two and a half weeks’ notice, wrote handwritten thank-you notes, delivered farewell hugs, and kissed Marcus’s ass just enough to keep future bridges intact.
You never knew when you'd need a glowing reference.
Despite the rumors that swirled in the wake of her resignation, the whispered pity over her "meltdown," she walked out of Walker and Doyle with her head high and her spine straight.
On her last day, she turned in her work phone with no forwarding contact, declined Marcus’s offer to stay on until she found something else, and left the building with a box of personal effects, teary eyes, and the kind of smile that trembles when you're trying too hard not to sob.
She was happy, but she was also terrified.
Seven years of her life, dedicated to climbing a ladder she now saw clearly for what it was, a vertical treadmill to nowhere. Partner had once felt like the peak. Now, it looked like a trap. A glass tower with no view and no joy.
So, she jumped. She stepped off that ladder before it was too late. If this messy, painful, exhilarating case had taught her anything, it was that life was too short to stay somewhere you no longer belonged.
There were other reasons for walking away, reasons that she was still trying to come to terms with.
She’d broken her lease with minimal fallout. That apartment would never feel safe again. Not after what happened.
The first few nights were hard. But slowly, the pieces started falling back into place. She was sleeping again. Laughing, sometimes. Smiling for real.
She’d reached out to the director of the city’s largest nonprofit legal aid group.
They were practically salivating at the prospect of hiring her to lead their asylum advocacy division.
Her interview was scheduled in two weeks.
It gave her time to breathe, to figure out what she wanted her new life to look like.
In the meantime, she was doing things she’d never allowed herself before.
Things like napping at noon and reading for pleasure.
She was devouring historical fiction like it was medicine.
And eating. Her mom and abuela were on a campaign to feed her emotions into submission. She hadn’t refused a single dish.
This morning alone, she’d eaten leftover flan while waiting for breakfast. Now, halfway through a morning walk, her stomach grumbled. It wasn’t healthy, but if she wasn’t eating, she was nauseous.
She walked another mile, her pace brisk. The safe rhythm of the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood soothed her. The late July air was surprisingly mild. This suburb north of the city was sleepy in the best possible way.
Perhaps she’d buy a home here one day. Starting a family wasn’t something she planned. Especially not now, but it had always been in the blueprint of her life. It had just gotten buried under ambition and courtroom victories.
As her parents’ house came back into view, she allowed herself a small smile. Things would be okay. Not perfect, but okay. She had a roof over her head. A family who adored her. A future that was wide open. Except her heart ... that part of her remained missing.
She stepped onto the front porch, stretching until her muscles loosened. Her lungs felt clearer. So did her mind.
Call him.
The thought came, intrusive and sharp. She would call, maybe next week once she had something concrete to tell him. Then hopefully her news would feel real enough to justify disrupting his life. She would give him the option to walk away clean. Let him choose without pressure or guilt.
Afterall, he hadn’t called. He hadn’t come looking. That told her everything she needed to know. If Chris had wanted to see her, he would have. She knew his track record, and he was a damn good detective.
Entering the house, she followed the sound of voices and the warm aroma of breakfast. The kitchen was bright with morning light. Her mom stood at the sink, refilling a glass of water. When she turned and saw Isabela, something flickered in her eyes. She looked nervous.
Then silence. Isabela frowned, her steps faltering. She turned toward the table and froze. Sitting there, coffee cups in hand like it was just another Sunday, were her father, Nic, and Chris.
Chris’s eyes met hers and everything inside her turned upside down. He looked good. His hair was a little longer, jaw freshly shaven, posture relaxed like he belonged there. Like he’d always been part of this family. Her father smiled like this was perfectly normal. Nic gave a small shrug.
“Isabela, you skipped your cup of coffee this morning,” her father said gently, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen like fog.
She was thrown by his voice, by how calm he sounded. Isabela watched numbly as he stood and retrieved a mug from the counter. The familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee hit her before he was even halfway back, earthy and strong, her usual favorite. Not today.
The aroma turned her stomach sour. Her breath hitched. Oh God. She barely managed to slap a hand over her mouth before turning and bolting out of the room.