Epilogue Ashley
Years later, Knox and I sat on the couch, the evening news playing quietly in the background. It was mostly noise until a segment caught our attention.
“…inmate Apple Richards has been formally charged with murder following a violent altercation inside Cook County Jail…”
We watched the report in silence.
“She finally crossed that line,” I murmured.
Knox didn’t respond.
When I turned toward him, something in his expression had shifted, his gaze fixed somewhere past the television, distant, like he wasn’t really seeing it anymore.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You know… I’ve carried this guilt for years.”
I angled my body toward him, studying his face. “Guilt for what?”
He hesitated, jaw tightening slightly, like he was deciding whether to say it at all. Then he did.
“That day in Walmart,” he said. “The day Apple was taken.”
My heart gave a small, startled kick.
“I was there.”
I straightened. “What do you mean you were there?”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, hands clasping loosely as he stared at the floor.
“I was in town for a football training camp. Stopped there to grab a few things. Snacks. Tape.” He paused, exhaling through his nose.
“Then everything went to hell. Police. Sirens. The Amber Alert.”
His fingers tightened slightly.
“I remember thinking I should have noticed something suspicious.” His voice dropped. “But I didn’t. I was right there and I saw nothing until it was already too late.”
He shook his head once, slow. “I never forgot that.”
I watched him for a second, something pulling at a memory I hadn’t touched in years.
“I was there too,” I said quietly.
His head lifted immediately, his gaze locking onto mine. “What?”
“I was eight,” I said, the memory coming back piece by piece. “Marissa took us shopping. Apple threw a tantrum. Then she disappeared.”
I shifted slightly on the couch, my fingers curling together. “Marissa sent me to another aisle for crayons.”
Knox went very still.
“There was a guy there,” I continued, softer now. “Young. Tall. He helped me reach them. Told me I shouldn’t be alone.”
Silence settled between us, heavy and charged.
Knox stared at me, something dawning in his expression.
“You pointed at the shelf,” he said slowly. “You couldn’t reach the box.”
My breath caught.
“You asked which ones were Crayolas.”
Everything snapped into place.
“That was you,” I whispered.
He stared at me, stunned. “I did not remember your face. I only remembered the guilt. I remembered thinking I should have done more.”
I shook my head and reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You did do something.”
He looked at me.
“You saw me,” I said softly. “You stayed. You made sure I wasn’t alone.”
His grip tightened around mine.
“I didn’t even know what was happening,” he said.
“You didn’t have to,” I replied. “You kept me safe in the moment you were there. You were kind to me when no one else was.”
His shoulders loosened, the weight he had carried for decades finally shifting.
“All this time,” he said quietly, “I thought I failed.”
I reached for his hand. “You did not fail me. You protected me.”
After Noah was born, we moved into a larger house because Knox insisted on it, saying he wanted space for the kids to run and space for us to breathe, along with more privacy and security.
Maria moved in with us. She had been taking care of Knox’s penthouse before, keeping everything in order, but now she became part of our daily life. She cooked, helped around the house, made sure everything ran smoothly. We also had a cleaning service come in regularly.
Knox never wanted me to stress about maintaining a large house.
When the kids were very young, I stayed home for three years. It felt right at the time. They needed me, and I wanted to be there for every moment. But eventually, I missed it. Being around adults. Using my mind for something other than schedules and routines.
So I went back part-time.
My desk was still in Knox’s office. The same sofa was there too, the one he had brought in during my first pregnancy so I could rest when I needed to. It stayed.
We used it for more than just rest. Those moments, just the two of us, felt like stolen time.
The penthouse was still there too. Empty most of the time, cleaned once a week, untouched otherwise.
When the kids got older, Maria would stay with them overnight once a month, and Knox and I would go there after a date night. It became our place. Somewhere separate from everything else.
At home, we had to be careful. Quiet. Controlled. There were little feet down the hall, doors that weren’t always fully closed, ears that heard more than they should.
At the penthouse, none of that existed.
There, I could run. I could let him catch me. I could let him pin me down and take whatever he wanted. I could be as loud as I wanted, and he didn’t have to hold back the way he did at home.
Those nights when we let our particular interests out were always special. We made sure we had time like that. At least once a week, we carved something out just for us. Sometimes it was a full night out. Sometimes it was as simple as a movie in the home theater after the kids were asleep.
Those moments mattered.
It was after one of those nights that I found out I was pregnant again. When I saw the test, I just stared at it. Shock didn’t even begin to cover it.
Years earlier, Knox had gotten a vasectomy because I’d been certain I didn’t want any more children.
I didn’t tell him right away. I had no idea how he would react, and even thinking the words made my stomach twist. Instead, I booked an appointment at a clinic that offered an early NIPP test and a sperm analysis for Knox.
Then I dragged him there without warning.
The doctor explained everything before Knox had much time to react.
He told us vasectomies were more than ninety nine percent effective.
During the procedure the tubes that carry sperm are cut and sealed.
It was supposed to stop the sperm from mixing with the semen, but sometimes the body healed in unexpected ways.
In rare cases, the tubes could reconnect or form tiny new channels through scar tissue.
Most of the time, if it happened, it happened early.
Years later was far less common. Something like one in two thousand.
Rare, but not impossible.
Knox had gone quiet beside me while the doctor talked. His shoulders were stiff, his expression closed off in that way he had when he was trying to process too many thoughts at once. But he didn’t argue when the doctor suggested testing. He just nodded and gave the sample.
The three days we waited were some of the longest of my life. Knox never once accused me or hinted at doubt, but I still needed him to be absolutely certain. The situation was so rare, so unbelievable, that even I would have questioned it if our roles were reversed.
When the results finally came, I felt like I could breathe again for the first time since that positive test.
Not that it could have been anyone else.
I had only ever been with Knox. Still, some irrational part of my pregnancy brain kept imagining bizarre science documentary scenarios.
Like one of us secretly being a chimera and not knowing it.
You know, those cases where someone absorbs their twin in the womb and ends up carrying two different DNA sets.
I really watched too many documentaries.
When the doctor finished explaining the results, Knox just stared at the paper.
The baby was his. His test had also shown live, healthy sperm, which confirmed exactly what the doctor had warned us about.
Somewhere along the line, his vasectomy had quietly reversed itself just enough for a few determined swimmers to make it through.
Knox finally exhaled, pulled me into his side, and pressed a kiss to my forehead.
“Sorry,” he muttered, half joking, half sounding a little too proud. “Apparently my sperm is just… ridiculously powerful.”
I huffed a laugh against his chest.
“Super mighty,” he added with a crooked grin. “Clearly impossible to contain.”
Then he squeezed me once more and sighed.
“I’ll book another vasectomy.”
And that is how I ended up pregnant again at thirty-eight. Knox was fifty. Not that he looked it. He still kept himself in shape, broad shoulders and strong arms, though there was more gray in his hair now and in the scruff along his jaw.
If anything, the gray was working very much in his favor.
I definitely wasn’t complaining.
A few months later, life in our house was shifting all over again.
Evan was turning nineteen in a few days, getting ready for college, and apparently that meant a weekend camping trip with his friends, because nothing said responsible young adulthood like a group of teenage boys disappearing into the woods.
“Mom,” Amelia’s voice called from the hallway.
I looked up just as my ten year old appeared in the doorway, her hair half falling out of a messy braid.
“Evan’s friends are here.”
I followed Amelia downstairs, and she came out with me onto the driveway, hovering quietly at my side. Just as we stepped outside, Evan was lifting a duffel bag into the back of a car already packed with backpacks, coolers, and far too much energy.
For a second I just stood there watching him.
It still caught me off guard sometimes how big he had gotten. Somewhere along the way, the skinny eight year old boy I had taken in had turned into a six foot four giant with broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and a face that still held traces of the child he used to be.
A child who had lost his mother.
And part of me would always wonder if that was my fault.
When Marissa was convicted for Elena’s murder, the guilt had settled in quietly but permanently. I had sent those messages about the affair, planted the idea, made sure she felt replaced. I never named Elena, but it hadn’t mattered in the end.
If I hadn’t interfered…
Maybe Elena would still be alive.
There was no way to undo it. No way to know.
“Mom.”
Evan’s voice pulled me back. He had straightened and was looking at me now, smiling. “We’re ready.”
My heart did that small, stupid squeeze it always did when he said it.
He came over and hugged me, then climbed into the front passenger seat. I leaned in through the open window, looking each of the boys in the eyes.
“Boys, pay attention. This weekend’s safety briefing.”
Evan groaned. “Mom…”
I held up a finger. “Number one. Do not add to the population.”
One of them coughed awkwardly.
Two fingers. “Number two. Do not subtract from the population.”
The front door opened behind me and Knox stepped out, sleeves rolled, coffee in hand. Beside him trailed our seven year old son, Noah. Knox joined me and nodded at the boys in greeting.
“And number three,” I continued, “do not end up in the hospital, the newspaper, or jail.”
Evan rubbed a hand over his face. The car was silent for half a second before the boys muttered, “Yes ma’am,” like they were in the military.
“If you do end up in jail,” Knox added, “establish dominance quickly.”
“Sir—what?” one of them squeaked.
Knox just sipped his coffee.
Evan dragged a hand down his face. “Please stop talking.”
I reached inside the car and straightened the collar of his jacket, the way I’d done since he was nine.
“You have everything?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“You’ll text me when you get there?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And you’ll—”
“—be careful,” he finished for me, smiling. “I know.”
I cupped his cheek for a second, because I could, because he still let me.
“Evan,” Noah piped up from beside the car window, “bring me something cool from the woods.”
Evan was Noah’s idol. To him, Evan was the coolest person alive.
Evan laughed and reached out the window to ruffle his hair.
“I will, buddy.”
“Have fun,” I said softly as I straightened.
“We will. Love you guys.”
“Love you too,” I said, stepping back from the car.
The engine started, music immediately blasting from the speakers as the boys whooped and shouted something about freedom and camping.
“Bye, Evan!” Noah yelled, waving with his whole arm like he was trying to flag down an airplane.
Beside me, Amelia lifted her hand in a much calmer, far more dignified wave.
My two youngest children could not have been more different. Noah was loud, fearless, and endlessly outgoing, born with the volume knob permanently stuck on high. Amelia was quieter, observant, the kind of child who listened more than she spoke and noticed everything even when she pretended not to.
The car pulled out of the driveway and disappeared down the road in a cloud of teenage enthusiasm and questionable decision making.
I stood watching the taillights disappear.
Knox stepped up behind me, one arm wrapping around my waist, his hand settling over the curve of my very pregnant stomach while the other still held his coffee.
“He’ll be fine,” he murmured.
“I know,” I said. “But I reserve the right to worry.”
He kissed the top of my head.
“You always do.”
I rested my hands over his where it covered my stomach, feeling the baby shift lazily beneath my ribs.
And maybe I did.
But standing there between the family we had somehow built, watching our oldest drive off into the world with a car full of laughter and bad decisions waiting to happen, Knox’s arm around me and another baby on the way…
I figured that was a pretty good life.