by T. L. Keary
I’ve sold everything I once owned, because I can’t stand the thought of ever touching any of it again, not after Charity took it all. I line up a new apartment with new furniture. And now it’s all real and it’s time to move on with my life again.
I stand looking out the back window in Davis’ living room, knowing I’m stalling.
I don’t know what happened between Davis and Ezra, the night after Charity was captured. The two of them disappeared into a room and they hadn’t emerged for an hour. I didn’t overhear yelling. I never heard my name. I was just the non-family member on the outside.
This wasn’t just about me.
This was between brothers.
But things were different after that.
I didn’t know what was said between Davis and Ezra.
Things were awkward and quiet.
And now the dire need to protect each other was gone.
So that night, Davis had said goodnight and headed back toward his own bedroom.
I’d watched him walk down the hall. When he’d turned back and looked at me, I hadn’t known what to say. There were a lot of words and a lot of emotions mixed up inside of me. But I hadn’t said anything, and Davis went into his room and closed the door.
In these three weeks since her capture, we’ve slept in separate beds, separate bedrooms. He went back to work and I had to get my life back together.
Our time together grew to be less and less until we’d reached the point where we hardly saw each other.
We’d become roommates.
And now it’s time for us to move back on with our lives.
The sun has tipped over the tops of the trees when I hear Davis’ door open and then his footsteps come down the hall.
I don’t look toward him when he steps in the room.
“Do you think he really would have run away with her?” I ask, because it’s the only straight thought in my head right now.
Davis comes to stand beside me, but there is three feet of space between us.
“I have to believe he wouldn’t have, considering he asked me to come over, which led to the police realizing he’d slipped off.” His voice is husky, low. There’s been this tightness and strain about him ever since Charity was caught. It’s the same as I’ve been. “He might have wanted to keep living the lie, but I think his heart knew he couldn’t.”
I nod. I swallow down the sick feeling that’s inhabited my stomach since that day.
I should feel better, knowing she’s been caught and is going to spend a long, long time in prison.
But…
I stand straight, turning away from the window. I walk across the living room, headed for the entryway. Slowly, Davis follows behind me, but the effort is controlled, hesitant.
I stop at the door, but don’t reach for the handle just yet.
“Thank you, Davis,” I say. My throat is painfully tight. “For everything. You didn’t have to do everything you did. But I’m grateful.”
He stops at the edge of the entryway. I try to read the expression in his eyes. I want to see conflict. Desperation. A plea.
But I can’t read him.
“You’re welcome, Sawyer,” he says simply. He stands there, eight feet out of reach, his hands in his pockets. “Good luck with everything.”
I blink twice. I nod my head. And then I open the door.
I walk out, closing it behind me.
I walk down the driveway to my new car that’s waiting there.
I get inside. I buckle.
My stomach turns over, sick, as I back down the driveway.
I use every ounce of strength and willpower I have not to look back as I pull onto the road, and I drive away from Davis Knox’s house.
We never talked about it. About what kind of us there would be after Charity was captured. We never made a plan. We didn’t talk about the future.
So when it came and everything got set right again, we both froze.
I’ve heard that relationships formed under dire circumstances don’t survive once a resolution has been reached.
Neither of us knew what to do once the villain was caught.
I’ll never know what was said between brothers. But if it means Ezra can heal now, having me out of the picture, I’ll let him have that. Davis is a good man, a good brother.
So I’ll leave.
Here we are once again, me leaving town, a Knox boy staying behind.
And even though the bad didn’t win, and good prevailed, everything feels wrong. And I have to wonder if in a way, Charity Cooper somehow still won.
Chapter Thirty-One
If you have to go to prison, I highly recommend going in pregnant.
Prison isn’t nearly as bad as I imagined. The guards aren’t as harsh. The food isn’t quite as bad. I don’t have to deal with the other women hardly at all. Really, it’s a place to relax and read and enjoy time watching my belly grow.
Mostly these days I read love stories. Stories about couples who beat astonishing odds against them. Couples who fight through everything to be together. They overcome each other’s lies and insecurities and, in the end, everyone forgives. They always get their happily ever after.
I see Ezra and I in those stories. None of them are quite as epic as ours. None of them had to sacrifice as much as I did.
This is just the hard part. The trial. The chapters of agony and grief.
I’m not sure how yet, but I’ll figure out a way to get us to the happily ever after.
As I lay in my bed in my cell, I rub my hands over my bare belly. My scrubs are pulled up just under my swollen breasts and I smile as I look down at my growing stomach.
It’s rounded now. Even when I lay down. At five months, there isn’t much question anymore. I’m to the point where I’ve felt good for weeks, and now I’m starting to feel big, but glowing.
I had an ultrasound yesterday. It’s a boy.
I was told they had let Ezra know. I’d asked if they could ask him if he had any names in mind.
Ezra isn’t allowed to see me. I guess they don’t trust him when it comes to me.
I know why.
Ezra loves me.
Not Sawyer James who left him.
He loves me, Charity Cooper, the one who did everything for him, the one who is giving him a son.
“Daddy loves us,” I say softly to my little bump as I gently caress it. “He loves us so much.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sawyer
“Do you have the details for the Makin project yet?” I ask as I draw in the details for the master bathroom on this project. Dina walks in with a few files and sets them on my desk.
“I’ve been on them all morning about it,” she says, sitting on the edge of the desk. “I have a feeling they’re getting squirrely.”
“Honestly, it wouldn’t be so bad if they backed out,” I say, erasing a mistake and redrawing the detail for the massive shower. I know I’m old school. Most architects do all of this on a computer, but I prefer to do my first draft by hand. “I haven’t gone home before eight in at least three weeks.”
It’s true. In the months I’ve been back to my normal life, I’ve been slammed. Maybe it’s all the media exposure, or maybe it’s just because I’m damn good at my job and have a real reputation, but my requests have nearly doubled. The money sure is nice in getting my life back on track. And it leaves me no time to think about anything but work.
I need that right now.
“Then you’re not going to like hearing that we got three more requests since last night.”
I shake my head. “I can take one more, but not three. I’m getting burned out, Dina.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say, so that’s why I took a look at the files for you and picked this one.”
She grabs the top file and sets it on the edge of the drawing desk.
“I think you’re going to like this one,” she says with a smile and then walks out, back to her desk.
I’m int
rigued, but I’m on a deadline. It will have to wait.
I don’t even realize how late it is until I tilt my head side to side, popping my neck four times, and look up.
The office is dark outside my glass walls. There are no signs of anyone left in the building but me.
Looking at the clock, I see it’s eight-thirty, and considering it’s the middle of December, that means it’s been dark for four hours already.
I set my pencil down and turn off the overhead lamp.
I grab my purse, pull on my boots and head out, locking doors and turning off lights behind me.
Rain drizzles as I push the door open and step out onto the sidewalk outside. With the late hour, I at least won’t have to fight traffic.
Considering what happened in June, I don’t walk home from work anymore. I sit in the miserable traffic with the thousands of others going to and from work.
I head down the sidewalk toward the parking garage when someone pushes off from the wall, taking a step toward me.
I’m reaching for the pepper spray in my purse when they back off, hands held up.
“Hey, hey,” says a familiar voice. “It’s just me.”
Through the dark, my eyes adjust to the dim light of the street lamps.
Davis stands there in a raincoat, his hands held up, his expression open.
“Davis,” I say, my voice breathy from the spike of adrenaline. “What are you doing here?”
Slowly, he lowers his hands, and I see something in his eyes. Something familiar. Something that makes my chest ache.
“I was wondering if I could take you to dinner?” he asks.
There’s nothing hesitant in the way he speaks. Just confidence in who he is, in who I am, and what he’s asking.
“Okay,” I answer without having to think.
Davis pulls out an umbrella, opening it, and shielding the both of us from the rain. It’s kind of ridiculous. This is Washington. We know how to deal with the rain here, and no one uses an umbrella. But I find I’m just grateful.
Together, we set off down the sidewalk.
“How have you been?” Davis asks. He looks over at me, and I can feel his eyes studying me, his gaze observant.
I give a shrug, which is actually more of a reaction than I feel capable of. “Okay. I guess. You?”
He looks forward again. He gives a shrug. “Okay. I guess.”
A small smile pulls on my lips.
Davis must have planned this out to some degree because he aims straight for a steak house at the end of the block. He pulls the door open for me and we step inside to where it’s warm and dry.
The hostess seats us at a booth and leaves us with the menus. We both scan, order, and then we’re left alone.
I stare across the table at him, studying his features. Something about him seems older since I last saw him. Something seems a little duller. Not as sharp or aggressive.
“July seems so long ago,” I say, letting the words come out without any filtering or check.
“Yeah, it does,” he says. “I could swear that was five years ago, not five months.”
I nod. “Can I just come right out and ask?” His eyes, his shoulders, the set of his lips tells me yes before he nods. “How’s Ezra doing?”
He leans forward, folding his arms on the table. His eyes shift away, looking around the space, but I can tell, he’s not really seeing anything. “He’s working on himself. He’s been going to therapy twice a week ever since they caught Charity.”
“He hasn’t gone to see her since, has he?” I ask. My stomach feels sick at just the idea of him in the same room as her again. We still don’t know if he intentionally tipped Davis off, or if he really would have run off with her.
Davis shakes his head. “The court won’t allow it, even if he tried. Which I’m finally about fifty percent sure he wouldn’t if he could.”
I didn’t mean to allow the noise of disgust to slip out my lips, but it does, and Davis just nods in agreement.
“He’s been going back to work for two months or so now,” Davis continues. “He kind of holed up for a while. Wouldn’t leave his room. Couldn’t deal. This fall was really long.”
I swear, shaking my head. “She got so deep in his head.”
Davis nods once more. “But he’s doing better. Like I said, he’s back to work. He’s been answering all my calls and texts. We’ve even gone to dinner a few times, and he doesn’t just leave anymore when I show up for family dinners at our parents’ house.”
“That’s good, then,” I say, my tone hopeful.
The waiter arrives, dropping off our food. When he’s gone, I sit forward, grabbing a fork.
“He’s even getting to the point where he can talk about you,” Davis says, stabbing a fork into his salad.
I raise an eyebrow, swallowing my bite. “You mean he’s not completely disgusted by the very thought of me?”
Davis shrugs, pushing the food around on his plate. “I mean, it’s not like he wants to talk about you a lot or for long, and he still can’t talk about…” he hesitates, his eyes rising up to mine for a moment, “that month and a half we were living together.”
Something sparks in my chest, sending a wave of flutters down into my stomach.
I missed this feeling.
I kind of forgot that it was real, that it wasn’t a figment of my imagination, tied to all the stress of those weeks.
“But he can at least talk like you’re a person,” Davis moves along. “And not like you and Charity are the same person.”
I nod, but I can’t seem to find any words.
“He has to see her one more time, though,” Davis says, and it takes me a second to realize where this change of direction is going. “The only way they could get Charity to sign the deal was if she could keep the baby with her for one month after the delivery.”
“She can do that in prison?” I ask, my brows furrowing in shock.
Davis nods. “They have what’s called prison nurseries,” he explains. “There are only a few prisons in the country that do it, but we have one here in Washington. She’ll be moved to a specific block and she can keep the baby with her.”
“But just for one month?” I ask for clarification.
“One month,” Davis says. “And then Ezra can pick him up. But he has to see Charity then.”
Just those two sentences give me so much to think about. The fact that he has to face Charity again is just cruel. He’s been working so hard to move on, to get her claws out of him. And then to have to go back and see her face to face?
“It’s a boy?” I stick with the easiest part to process.
Davis nods. “Yeah.”
It makes my stomach sick. How is Ezra supposed to handle this? Is he really supposed to be a father to a child that came from a woman who tricked him into thinking she was an entirely different person? Is he supposed to love the offspring of a psychopath? How can he ever get over this if he’s strapped with a child who will remind him of all of this, over and over?
“You think Ezra is capable of that kind of love?”
I didn’t mean to say the words out loud. And I realize that the question must seem so random and out of place considering I didn’t voice my other thoughts.
But still, Davis doesn’t seem too lost.
“He held on to the idea of what the two of you had for thirteen years,” he says. There’s something sad in his tone, something regretful. “In a weird, twisted way, I think Ezra might be the only person who could love that child despite the way it came into this world.”
I shake my head. It’s just so sad. So messed up.
“Did you hear that Faith Cooper was released?” I ask, changing directions.
Davis nods. “Sounds like Charity fessed up. Apparently, she thought it was reasonable to try to burn those cheerleaders alive for them mocking her for asking Ezra out back in high school.”
I shake my head. It makes me absolutely sick, the things that woman can justify doing over Ezr
a.
At least Faith Cooper got far away from here as soon as she was released. I heard she headed for Boston.
We eat for a few silent minutes, each lost in our own heads.
Davis doesn’t fight me when I pull out my card to pay the check. We head out of the restaurant, and the rain has stopped by the time we leave.
“Can I walk you home?” Davis asks.
My car is down the road, still parked at work, and it’s five blocks to my apartment. But I don’t hesitate when I tell him yes.
Side by side, we walk down the spottily lit sidewalk. Davis holds the umbrella, his other hand in his pocket. I cling to my purse, not knowing what to say or what to do.
“So, I’m thinking about moving out of Snohomish,” he says, breaking the quiet moment.
“Really?” I question, raising an eyebrow at him.
He shrugs, keeping his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. “Yeah, I guess it just feels different now.”
“How’s that?” I press. Once more, that spark ignites in my chest.
He shrugs again. “My brother hardly feels like my brother. All anyone wants to talk about is what happened. I can hardly even stand being in my own house anymore.”
“But I love your house,” I say, remorse slipping into my tone.
Davis glances over at me, meeting my eyes in the dark. But they go back to the sidewalk once more. “Just doesn’t feel the same. Feels…too empty now.”
My heart rate picks up, and suddenly I’m very aware of every amount of distance between us.
We turn the corner, and there, I see the door to my apartment.
“Besides, I’ve been expanding outside of town,” Davis moves on. “I’ve got a new development starting in Woodinville. I think you’d like it.”
I smile a little. Woodinville is the exact halfway mark between Bellevue and Snohomish.
“I’d like to see it sometime,” I say.
We step in front of my door and I stop there. We stare at each other through the dark, and I wish I knew what was going through his head. I wish I knew what was going through my own head. It’s all too complicated to sort out.
