Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LUKE
The fire pit at my parents’ house has become a sanctuary—neutral ground where the world’s noise fades and we can simply be family. The air carries the scent of wood smoke and the faint sweetness of toasted marshmallows. Laughter drifts across the yard, mingling with the fire’s crackle.
Kelly stands near my mom at the picnic table, carefully setting down a tray of food as if it might shatter.
Two weeks ago, she was trembling in Andi’s arms, a gun still warm in her hand.
Tonight, she’s arguing with my dad about the proper way to roast a marshmallow—lightly toasted or set ablaze.
The debate is gentle, almost playful, but I can see the way she glances at my mom for approval, the way she straightens when my dad laughs at her joke.
Progress doesn’t announce itself. It arrives quietly, in small arguments about sugar and the easy comfort of belonging.
When Kelly finishes setting the tray down, she scans the yard, her eyes searching for reassurance.
Andi meets her gaze and opens her arms. Kelly goes to her without hesitation, melting into Andi’s embrace.
This time there’s laughter—a soft, surprised sound as Andi spins her before setting her down.
It’s not the desperate grip from that night.
It’s the hug of a teenager who’s starting to believe she gets to stay.
Inside, Mom and Dad are hunched over paperwork with the attorney, their voices low and serious.
They’re pursuing foster placement first, then adoption.
Detective Burns ensured Kelly’s statement was recorded with care and flagged as protected testimony.
Kelly is no longer just a runaway girl with a gun.
She’s a witness. A survivor. That matters.
It’s been fourteen days since the night Rhoades broke into our house. Fourteen days of media chaos, legal filings, patrol cars parked outside, and rumors swirling about Rhoades fleeing the country. And fourteen days of Andi pretending she isn’t waiting for the next blow.
I slide behind her at the fire and wrap my arms around her waist. She leans back into me, her fingers tracing absent patterns along my forearm, grounding herself—and me. The warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the steady rhythm of her breathing—all of it anchors me in the present.
I used to think marriage was just a symbol. Now I understand it as something more: a lifeline. I almost lost her. That changes a man.
“I’m serious,” I murmur into her hair. “Vegas. Tomorrow.”
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my chest. “You’ve suggested Vegas every day this week.”
“I’ll keep asking until you say yes.”
She twists to look up at me. There’s love in her eyes, but also caution. “We’re not done yet,” she says quietly. “Not legally.”
She’s right. The Department of Justice handed the Rhoades case to the FBI three days after Kelly’s statement.
Financial subpoenas. Search warrants. Offshore accounts frozen.
The youth center review was abruptly “paused pending outcome of federal investigation.” Funny how that works—when the FBI shows up, boards get braver.
I kiss the side of Andi’s head. “We’re stronger together.”
“We already are,” she whispers.
Before I can say more, Brandon bursts through the back door, his voice slicing through the warmth of the yard. “You need to see this. Now.”
We hurry inside. The television is already on, the blue glow flickering across the living room. A breaking news banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen.
"Federal authorities confirm that a vessel registered to Congressman Jackson Rhoades was intercepted in international waters earlier this week. The Speaker’s body has been recovered. Mrs. Delia Rhoades remains missing."
The anchor’s voice is clinical, almost detached.
"Preliminary reports indicate the yacht had been at sea for several days.
Officials declined to comment on the cause of death but confirmed the FBI had been actively pursuing Rhoades in connection with multiple felony investigations, including allegations of child abuse, obstruction of justice, and financial crimes. "
No theatrics. No pirates. No sensational gore. Just the cold language of federal jurisdiction.
The room is silent. Kelly’s fingers find Andi’s hand without looking.
The anchor adds, "Sources indicate sealed indictments were imminent at the time of Rhoades’ disappearance."
And that’s it. No redemption arc. No courtroom showdown. Just an end.
I watch Andi carefully. Her face doesn’t show triumph—only release. But I expect clarity and celebration to fill me too. Instead, my chest feels strangely hollow, and not just from relief. The news cycles through in the background, but all I hear is a quiet internal echo: is this all there is?
I see Kelly slowly turn to Andi, tears slipping down her cheeks, quiet and unhurried. "He can’t hurt anyone now," she whispers.
Andi pulls her close. "No, sweetheart," she says. "He can’t."
There’s grief in that hug. Grief for what happened. Grief for what never will. Grief for the justice that will never get its full reckoning.
When the others drift back outside, giving them space, I linger in the doorway. Kelly finally steps back, wiping her face. She manages a small smile. "I’m okay," she says.
She isn’t, not fully. But she’s closer. She heads outside, where Alicia immediately wraps an arm around her shoulders. Kelly leans in, accepting the comfort.
That’s the real victory.
Andi hasn’t moved. She stands in the kitchen, staring at the blank television screen long after the broadcast ends.
I step behind her. "Talk to me."
She inhales slowly. "I thought it would feel bigger," she admits. "Louder. Like some cosmic explosion of justice."
"And?"
"It just feels… quiet."
Justice is rarely cinematic. It’s procedural. And sometimes incomplete for those who longed for it.
She turns to face me, her eyes red but steady. "Luke."
"Yes, baby?"
"Is it really over now? Can I finally breathe without waiting for the next blow to appear out of thin air?"
She speaks the words softly, but they hit me like a freight train. All the years she’s been on her own, alone and afraid, without the love of her family to sustain her, are behind her now.
I want to reassure her, but the questions churn in my own head.
With Rhoades gone, some lines finally feel uncrossable again.
Yet, in the quiet, an ache lingers. Something about this ending does not settle entirely, and for me, it runs deeper than fear.
For most of my life, fighting was how I found purpose.
But ever since I sent in my paperwork to reactivate my psychologist license, I've felt a fault line splitting me in two.
Part of me knows I am more than fists, that I want to build something beyond pain.
I should celebrate the intended change and take pride in moving toward a place where I can help heal.
And yet, tonight, the truth is tangled. The fighter in me wants one more round, one more clean confrontation.
The healer is supposed to accept surrender, release, and peace.
I tell myself the future will make that easier, but I wonder if it will.
I wonder how I will stand in the ring and at a kid’s side, reconciling both hungers—the urge to break and the urge to mend.
How long before the expectations of both grind against each other?
"It’s over, baby. You don’t have to worry about them anymore. Your family is right here, and we love you. We have our problems, sure, but we have each other’s backs when it counts. That means we have yours, come what may."
I lean down and press my forehead to hers. For a moment, time stands still as we let go of the weight we’ve carried for so long, but even as I promise Andi safety, I sense the tension growing between who I was and who I am trying to become.
"Tonight," she whispers, "we start fresh."
ANDI
The week after the FBI confirms the federal investigation, I call an emergency board meeting at MaxMorgan Music.
Not out of fear—out of resolve. I’m done letting events dictate my actions.
As Executive Chair, I don’t have the luxury of disappearing until things “settle.” I built this board the way my father taught me: carefully, intentionally, with people who understand the long game.
Still, I can feel the tension in the room—the way uncertainty makes even seasoned professionals uneasy.
Stock dipped the morning after my interview aired. It rebounded the day Maria testified. It dipped again when the youth center review hit national news. Power, I’m reminded, always comes with a price tag.
I stand at the head of the table, the weight of their expectations pressing in. “I will not step down,” I say, my voice steady. No one has asked, but I see the relief and surprise ripple through the room.
“I will not suspend my philanthropic work. I will not issue a defensive press statement. And I will not allow this company to be used as leverage against children.”
Silence. Then Bill clears his throat. “Federal indictments are expected,” he says quietly. “If Rhoades is formally charged, public sentiment will swing decisively.”
“It already is,” I reply. “But that’s not the point. MaxMorgan Music doesn’t move based on sentiment. We move based on integrity.”
A few heads nod, the mood shifting from apprehension to something closer to respect.
“I’ll delegate more operational authority to the CEO for the next quarter. Public-facing appearances will be strategic. But I remain Executive Chair.”
That’s the balance: not retreat, not reckless exposure. Leadership, without apology.
After the meeting, I linger in my office, the city lights flickering beyond the window. My father’s portrait hangs behind the desk, his gaze steady. “You’d tell me not to flinch,” I murmur to the empty room. And I don’t.