Epilogue
Five years.
We’d been “Ryder and Layla Thompson” for five years.
The safe house had become our home. The quiet suburban neighborhood had become our life. And the fake marriage had become very, very real.
We had four kids now — three boys and one girl — running around the backyard with the energy only children raised in witness protection could have. Layla was pregnant again, her belly round and beautiful as she stood on the porch watching them play, one hand resting on her bump.
I came up behind her, wrapping my arms around her and kissing the side of her neck. She leaned back into me with a soft, content sigh.
The knock at the door came on a quiet Saturday afternoon.
When I opened it, I froze.
Our parents were standing there looking older, more tired, but alive. The Marshals were with them.
“Son,” my dad said, his voice thick. “It’s over. The threat’s gone. You can come home.”
Layla stepped up beside me, one hand on her pregnant belly, the other reaching for mine. Our oldest, four-year-old Mason, peeked out from behind her legs.
The shock on our parents’ faces was immediate.
“You… you two…” Jenny’s mother stammered, looking between us and the children. “You’re… married? With kids?”
Layla squeezed my hand tighter. Her voice was soft but steady. “We are. And we’re happy.”
I pulled her closer, my hand resting protectively on her belly. “We’re not coming back. This is our life now. This is our family.”
Our parents looked stunned. The Marshals tried to explain the situation, but I cut them off.u
“We’re staying. As Ryder and Layla Thompson. As husband and wife. As parents to our kids.”
Layla looked up at me with that same shy, loving smile she’d given me five years ago in this very house.
“We don’t want normal,” she said quietly. “We want this.”
The parents left confused and emotional. The Marshals eventually accepted our decision.
Later that night, after the kids were in bed, I pulled Layla into our bedroom and made love to her slowly, my hand on her pregnant belly.
Five years ago, we were forced into this life.
Now, we wouldn’t trade it for anything.