Epilogue
SEDONA
ONE YEAR LATER
I hold the manila folder against my chest. It feels heavier than it should, weighted down with six months of data, spreadsheets, and the kind of meticulous annotations that Dr. Alistair demands.
But it’s done. The final draft of the cardiovascular study on canine hypertension is finished.
The hallway of the research facility is quiet. The HVAC system creates the only sound, a steady, monotonous drone that I’ve learned to tune out over the last few years. But today, it sounds different. It sounds like an ending.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. My boots squeak faintly on the linoleum.
I raise my hand and knock on the frosted glass of Dr. Alistair’s door.
“Come in,” a voice calls out.
I push the door open. Dr. Alistair is sitting behind his desk, surrounded by towers of journals.
He looks exactly the same as he did the day I interviewed for the position—wire-rimmed glasses, a cardigan despite the summer heat, and a pen tucked behind his ear.
“Sedona,” he says, looking up. He offers a small, tired smile. “You have the report?”
I walk forward and place the folder on the only clear spot on his desk. “Final draft. All the variables are accounted for. I double-checked the statistical analysis. The p-values are solid.”
He picks up the folder and flips it open. He scans the summary page. He nods slowly.
“This is exceptional work,” he says. He looks at me over the rim of his glasses. “As always.”
“Thank you.”
He closes the folder. He takes off his glasses and polishes them with the hem of his sweater.
“I’m sad to hear you’re not renewing your contract,” he says. His voice is polite, but I can see the disappointment etched in the lines around his eyes. “We were hoping to keep you on for the next phase of the trial. The grant money came through last week.”
“I know,” I say. My throat tightens. “And I appreciate the offer. Truly.”
“Then why?” he asks. “Is it the salary? We can negotiate.”
“It’s not the money,” I say. I shake my head. “It’s the distance.”
He frowns. “Distance?”
“Dr. Alistair, for the last six months, I’ve been flying back to Texas every other weekend. Sometimes more. I’ve been trying to maintain a relationship with my family, with my… partners… while holding down a position here.”
I take a breath. The admission feels good. Heavy, but good.
“I’m running thin,” I confess. “I can’t be in two places at once anymore. And the truth is, my place is there now. On the ranch. In the clinic.”
He nods slowly. He understands. Maybe not the specifics—the pack, the heat, the bond that ties me to the brothers—but he understands the human element. The need for roots.
“Home,” he murmurs. “It is a powerful pull.”
“It is.”
“Well,” he says. He puts his glasses back on. “We will miss your sharp mind here, Sedona. You have a gift for research. Don’t let it go to waste entirely.”
“I won’t. I’ll still be publishing the paper with you.”
“Good.” He stands up and extends his hand across the desk. “I wish you the best of luck. I hope the move goes smoothly.”
I shake his hand. His grip is dry and firm.
“Thank you, Dr. Alistair.”
“Oh, one more thing,” he says as I turn to leave. “There’s talk of a farewell gathering? Clara mentioned it?”
“A going-away party,” I confirm. “Tonight. At O’Malley’s. Seven p.m.”
“I will do my best to make an appearance,” he says. “But no promises. Grant paperwork waits for no man.”
“I understand.”
I walk out of his office and close the door softly behind me.
I head down the hall toward the lab. My lab. Or, the lab that used to feel like mine.
I push through the double doors. The benches are clean, and the microscopes are covered. My station is empty.
I stand there for a moment and think about the first time I walked into this room.
I was twenty-three, running from a proposal, from a life that terrified me. I thought this place would save me.
I thought if I immersed myself in science, in data, in the concrete reality of cells and blood, I wouldn’t have to feel the ache in my chest.
And it worked. For a while.
But data doesn’t hug you when you’re cold. Science doesn’t smell like pine smoke and rain. Research doesn’t love you back.
I’m done.
I'm done with the long flights. I’m done with the layovers in Dallas. I’m done with the solo dinners in cramped apartments. I’m done with the sterility.
I check my watch. 4:30 p.m.
I have a few hours before the party. I need to go back to the apartment. I need to finish packing the last box. I need to say goodbye to the view from the fire escape.
I turn to leave the lab, and my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out.
The screen lights up with a name. Clara.
I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey!” Her voice is breathless. I hear traffic in the background. Horns. Sirens. The symphony of New York. “I just clocked out. The school let us go early because of the heat wave.”
“Lucky you.”
“I know. I’m sweating through my silk blouse. It’s tragic.” She pauses. “So, are you free? Can we get a drink before the party? I need to decompress.”
I smile and lean my shoulder against the doorframe of the lab.
“Where do you want to go?”
“There’s that wine bar on Third. The one with the air conditioning that feels like the Arctic Circle.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“Get here in fifteen,” she says. “I’m thirsty.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m walking.”
“Love you!”
“Love you too.”
I hang up. I slip the phone back into my pocket.
I take one last look at the lab. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The silence is absolute.
I turn around. I walk out the double doors. I don’t look back.
I push the button for the elevator. The doors slide open.
I step inside. The metal walls reflect my image. I look like a woman who is tired. But I also look like a woman who knows exactly where she is going.
I’m going to have a drink with my best friend. Then I’m going to a party to say goodbye to a city that helped me grow up.
And then, tomorrow morning, I’m getting on a plane.
I’m going home.
To the ranch. To the clinic. To the dusty boots and the warm sun and the scent of pine.
To Billy. To Seth. To Tex.
I smile at my reflection and press the button for the lobby.
I’m ready.
The end.