Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Aria
The case files sat on Khloe's coffee table like a bomb waiting to go off.
I'd been staring at them for twenty minutes, unable to make myself reach for the manila folder on top. My coffee had gone cold in my hands. Outside, the world kept moving—cars passing, people living their normal lives—while mine felt suspended in this moment of terrible possibility.
What if I opened them and found proof that Ronan really was a killer? What if everything I'd felt, everything I'd believed about him, about all of them, was a lie?
But what if it wasn't?
My hands trembled as I finally set down my mug and pulled the first folder into my lap.
The police report was on top, dated three years ago. Incident location: 2847 Maple Grove Lane, Jacksonville, Florida. Victim: Eva Marie Rowland, age 29. Cause of death: acute barbiturate overdose.
I forced myself to keep reading.
*Officers responded to a 911 call at 11:47 p.m. Caller identified as Adam Rowland, husband of victim. Upon arrival, victim was found unresponsive in master bedroom. Paramedics pronounced deceased at scene. No signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle.*
My heart was pounding, but I kept going.
The next page was the toxicology report.
The levels of secobarbital in Eva's system were astronomical—far beyond what could be accidental.
The medical examiner's notes were clinical, detached: *Manner of death: suicide.
Evidence consistent with intentional overdose. *
Then came the witness statements. A neighbour reported hearing raised voices earlier that evening but nothing violent.
Eva's therapist had submitted a statement noting she'd been treating Eva for severe depression and borderline personality disorder for two years.
There were documented suicide attempts—two previous hospitalisations.
I flipped to the timeline. Adam—Ronan—had been at work until 10:30 p.m. His alibi was airtight, corroborated by security footage and three coworkers. He'd come home to find Eva unresponsive.
The photos were harder to look at. Eva lying in bed, peaceful except for the unnatural stillness. Pill bottles on the nightstand. A glass of water. And yes, there was Ronan—Adam—kneeling beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his face a mask of anguish.
But these weren't the photos I'd been sent. Those had been cropped, manipulated to look sinister. These showed the full scene: the paramedics in the background, the timestamp, the context that changed everything.
I found the detective's notes near the bottom of the file. *No evidence of foul play. Husband cooperative, clearly distraught. Victim's history of mental illness and previous attempts consistent with suicide determination. Case closed.*
There were character statements too. Eva's own mother had written one, and I had to stop reading halfway through because my vision blurred with tears.
She talked about Eva's struggles, her refusal to stay on medication, her pattern of pushing away everyone who tried to help.
She wrote about Adam's devotion, how he'd tried everything to save her daughter, how he'd never given up even when Eva had given up on herself.
*Adam is a good man who loved my daughter more than she could accept. Her death is a tragedy, but it is not his fault. I hope he can forgive himself, because Eva would want him to be happy.*
I closed the file and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to process everything I'd just read.
Ronan hadn't killed his wife. He'd tried to save her. He'd loved her, and she'd been too broken to let him, and he'd spent three years carrying that guilt and grief. And then he'd found the courage to love again—to love me—and I'd thrown it back in his face the moment things got hard.
"Oh God," I whispered to the empty room. "What have I done?"
The apartment door opened and Khloe came in, arms full of grocery bags. She took one look at my face and set everything down.
"You read them," she said.
I nodded, unable to speak.
She sat beside me and pulled me into a hug. "What did they say?"
"He didn't do it." The words came out broken. "He didn't kill her. She killed herself, and he tried to save her, and I—" My voice cracked. "I ran. I didn't even give him a chance to explain. I just believed the worst and ran."
"Hey." Khloe squeezed my shoulders. "You were scared. Someone sent you those photos specifically to make you scared. That's not your fault."
"But I should have trusted him. I should have—"
"You're human, Aria. You got scared. But you're here now, reading the truth. That counts for something."
I wiped my eyes and looked at her. "His real name is Adam. Did you know that?"
"I figured it was something like that when you said witness protection." She smiled softly. "That's kind of hot, actually. Very mysterious."
Despite everything, I laughed. "Not hotter than Ronan, though."
"Obviously not." She bumped my shoulder. "So what are you going to do?"
The question hung in the air. What was I going to do?
"I don't know if I can face them," I admitted. "I'm so embarrassed, Khloe. I ran away like a child. I didn't answer their calls. I made them worry, made the kids worry. Noah probably thinks I'm just like all their exes—someone who leaves at the first sign of trouble."
"Are you?" Khloe asked pointedly.
"No!"
"Then prove it. Go home. Tell them you're sorry.
Tell them you love them." She grabbed my hands.
"Aria, you've been miserable here. You cry yourself to sleep every night.
You check your phone every five minutes hoping one of them will text.
You're in love with them—all of them—and they're in love with you.
Don't let whoever sent those photos win. "
Her words hit me like cold water. "Wait." I sat up straighter. "Who sent me those photos?"
"What?"
"Someone sent me those photos. Someone who knew about Eva, who knew about Ronan's past, who had access to crime scene photos and knew exactly how to crop them to make him look guilty.
" My heart started racing again, but this time with anger instead of fear.
"Someone wanted me to leave. Someone wanted to break us up. "
"Holy shit," Khloe breathed. "You're right."
"And I let them." The realisation made me furious—at myself, at whoever had done this, at the whole situation. "I let some anonymous asshole manipulate me into abandoning the best thing that's ever happened to me. I let them make me doubt the man I love. I let them win."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
I stood up, suddenly filled with determination. "I'm going home. I'm going to apologise to my guys, and then we're going to figure out who did this, and we're going to make sure they never hurt anyone I love again."
Khloe grinned. "That's my girl. When are you leaving?"
"Now." I was already moving toward the bedroom to pack. "Right now. I've wasted enough time."
***
The drive back to Dallas felt endless.
Every mile, my determination wavered a little more. What if they didn't want me back? What if I'd hurt them too badly? What if the kids hated me for leaving?
What if Ronan couldn't forgive me for believing, even for a moment, that he was capable of murder?
My hands were shaking on the steering wheel—not from coffee this time, but from pure anxiety. I'd practised what I would say a hundred times, but none of it sounded right. How do you apologise for something like this? How do you explain that you were scared without making it sound like an excuse?
The Dallas skyline appeared on the horizon, and my stomach dropped. I was really doing this. No more hiding, no more running. I had to face what I'd done.
I drove through familiar streets, past the park where we'd taken the kids, past the grocery store where Gabriel had kissed me in the parking lot, past the restaurant where Liam had told me he was falling for me. Every landmark was a memory, a reminder of what I'd almost thrown away.
When I pulled up in front of Noah's house, I sat in the car for a long moment, trying to breathe. The house looked the same—white picket fence, manicured lawn, the home I'd come to think of as mine. But would they still want me here?
Only one way to find out.
I walked up to the door on shaking legs and knocked before I could lose my nerve.
The door opened, and Noah stood there.
He looked terrible. There were bags under his eyes, his hair was disheveled, and he was wearing the same shirt I'd seen him in three days ago. But when he saw me, his whole face transformed.
"Aria?" He said my name like he couldn't quite believe I was real.
"Hi," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Can I come in?"
He didn't answer. He just pulled me inside and wrapped his arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe. I felt him shaking, felt the way he buried his face in my hair like he was trying to memorise the feel of me.
"You're here," he said against my neck. "You're really here."
"I'm so sorry," I whispered. "Noah, I'm so sorry. I should have—"
He pulled back just enough to kiss me, cutting off my apology. It was desperate and relieved and full of everything we hadn't been able to say. When we finally broke apart, we were both crying.
"I thought I'd lost you," he said, his voice cracking. "I thought you were gone for good."
"Never. I'm never leaving again. I promise."
He kissed me again, and I heard something crash in the kitchen. We both jumped, and Noah pulled away reluctantly.
"I was making coffee," he explained, looking at the shattered pot on the floor. "I don't even care. You're here."
"Let me help clean—"
"Daddy?" A small voice came from the stairs.
We both turned to see Oliver and Theo standing there in their pajamas, rubbing sleep from their eyes. They looked at me, and I saw the moment they realised who I was.
"Aria!" They both screamed and came running down the stairs.
"Wait, there's glass—" Noah started, but they were already launching themselves at me.