Chapter 9
Wren didn’t just come back. She came back fighting.
The doctors did emergency surgery that night. Repaired the hole in her heart. It was risky, they said. Most babies her size and weight didn’t survive. But Wren did. She came through it like the little warrior she was.
Three days later, she was off the ventilator. Breathing on her own. A week later, she was taking full bottles. Gaining weight. Her color was good. Her eyes were bright. The doctors called her a miracle.
We called her our little phoenix. Risen from the ashes.
Chloe’s funeral was small. Just us. Boone, Margaret, me, Detective Carter, Mia—who’d been placed with a foster family in the next town, who’d come to say goodbye to her big sister. We buried her in the small cemetery next to Elijah. Put a stone on her grave that said BELOVED SISTER. BELOVED MOTHER. AT PEACE.
We didn’t talk about Jax. Not at first. The police were looking for him. Had warrants out in three states. But he was a ghost. Vanished without a trace.
Boone threw himself into being Wren’s dad. He went to every single parenting class the hospital offered. Learned infant CPR. Learned how to give her her heart meds. Learned every single thing there was to know about taking care of a preemie with a repaired heart.
He got a job too. Teaching woodworking to other vets at the local VA. It was perfect. He got to work with his hands, which helped the nerve damage. He got to help other guys who were hurting, just like him. And he got to set his own hours, so he never missed a doctor’s appointment, never missed a feeding, never missed a single second of Wren’s life.
I cut back my shifts at the NICU. Started working part-time, so I could be home with Wren too. Boone and I moved into Margaret’s old house, fixed it up, painted Wren’s room yellow, filled it with stuffed wrens and books and tiny baby clothes. Margaret moved in with us too—said she wasn’t missing a single second of her granddaughter’s life, and we’d have to drag her out kicking and screaming if we tried to make her leave.
We were happy. For the first time in a long time, we were actually happy.
Wren grew. Fast. She hit every milestone right on time—smiled at six weeks, rolled over at four months, sat up at six, crawled at eight, pulled herself up at ten. She was tiny for her age, still, but fierce. Loud. Stubborn. Had Margaret’s temper, Boone’s blue eyes, Elijah’s crooked little smile. She was the center of our whole world.
Her first birthday came. Adjusted age, since she was three months early. We had a big party in the backyard. All the nurses from the NICU came. Detective Carter came. Mia came, with her foster mom, stayed the whole day, held Wren, sang to her, told her stories about Chloe. We had a big cake shaped like a wren. Wren smashed it all over her face, giggling, happy as could be.
That night, after everyone left, Boone and I sat on the porch swing, holding Wren between us, watching the fireflies come out. She was asleep, her head on Boone’s chest, her little hand fisted in his shirt.
Boone looked at me. His eyes were soft. Happy. He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a small velvet box. Opened it.
Inside was a ring. Simple. A small diamond, set in white gold. The kind of ring I’d always dreamed of, but never thought I’d get.
“Lila Cole,” he said. His voice was rough, nervous. “I love you. More than anything. You saved me. You saved Wren. You gave me a family when I had nothing left. Will you marry me?”
I cried. Happy tears. Nodded so hard my neck hurt.
“Yes,” I said. “A thousand times yes.”
He slipped the ring on my finger. Kissed me. Soft. Gentle. Wren stirred between us, let out a tiny coo, and went back to sleep.
Everything was perfect.
Too perfect.
I should have known it wouldn’t last.
The next day, the mail came. I was sorting through it—bills, junk, a few birthday cards for Wren—when I saw it.
A plain white envelope. No return address. Just my name, written in messy, familiar handwriting. The same handwriting that had been on the note left in my apartment.
I froze. My blood ran cold.
I opened it slow. My hands were shaking.
Inside was a photo.
Elijah. Taken a week before he died, by the looks of it. He was thinner than I remembered, his eyes sunken, but he was smiling. Holding a tiny pair of baby booties. Pink. Wren’s.
Taped to the back of the photo was a note. Same handwriting. Same angry scrawl.
YOU THINK IT’S OVER?
YOU THINK YOU WON?
CHLOE TOOK THE FALL FOR ME.
SHE KNEW IF SHE DIED, YOU’D STOP LOOKING.
STUPID LITTLE BITCH.
I’VE BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME.
WATCHING.
WAITING.
WREN’S HEART IS WEAK.
IT’D BE A SHAME IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO IT.
SOMETHING NO DOCTOR COULD FIX.
SEE YOU SOON, MERCER.
— J
I dropped the envelope. The photo fluttered to the floor, face up, Elijah’s smile staring up at me.
Jax.
He’d been here the whole time.
Watching us.
Waiting.
And now he was gonna finish what he’d started.
I ran into the house. Screamed for Boone. He came running from the kitchen, Wren on his hip, a bottle in his hand.
“What? What’s wrong? Is it Wren?”
I picked up the note. Handed it to him. Shook so bad I could barely stand.
He read it. His face went white. Then red. Then a cold, hard rage I’d only seen once before—at The Rusty Nail, when he’d been ready to kill Tuck.
He handed Wren to me. Kissed her forehead. Soft. Gentle.
“Take her to the safe room,” he said. His voice was ice. “Lock the door. Call Detective Carter. Tell her he’s here. Tell her to bring every cop she has. Don’t come out until I come get you. No matter what you hear. No matter what happens. You understand me? No matter what.”
“Boone, what are you gonna do?” I whispered.
He walked to the hall closet. Pulled out his gun. Checked the clip. Slid it into the back of his jeans.
“I’m gonna end this,” he said. “Once and for all. For Eli. For Chloe. For Wren. For all of us.”
He walked out the front door. Didn’t look back.
I ran to the safe room—we’d had it installed after the break-in, steel door, bulletproof glass, a phone line straight to 911. Locked the door behind me. Sat on the floor in the dark, holding Wren tight, rocking her, my hand over her heart, feeling it beat strong and steady under my palm.
Outside, I heard a car pull up. Tires on gravel. A door slam.
Two men. Yelling.
Then a gunshot.
Loud. Sharp.
Wren woke up. Started crying.
I held her tighter. Covered her mouth so she wouldn’t be heard. Rocked her. Whispered in her ear that it was okay, that Daddy was gonna make it all better, that we were safe.
Another gunshot.
Then silence.
Long. Scary. Silence.
I waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
No Boone.
No cops.
Nothing.
I stood up. Walked to the door. Put my hand on the lock.
I shouldn’t open it. I promised.
But what if Boone was hurt? What if he was dying out there, alone, and I was just sitting here?
I unlocked the door. Pulled it open slow.
The house was quiet. Dark.
I walked down the hall, slow, Wren held tight to my chest. The front door was open. Cold wind blowing in.
I stepped outside.
The yard was lit by the porch light.
Boone was on his knees in the grass. His shirt was torn. His lip was bleeding. He had a gun to a man’s head.
Jax.
He was bigger than I’d imagined. Bald, fat, a scar across his cheek, a snake tattoo on his neck just like Tuck’s. He was on his stomach in the dirt, his hands cuffed behind his back, blood running from a cut on his forehead.
Detective Carter was there, and half a dozen state cops, their guns raised, lights flashing, sirens wailing in the distance.
“Got him,” Boone said. His voice was rough, tired, but steady. “He tried to run. I shot his tire out. Crashed his car into the ditch. He’s done.”
Detective Carter walked over. Cuffed Jax tighter. Pulled him to his feet. Jax looked at me. Looked at Wren. Smiled that same nasty smile I’d seen on Chloe and Tuck.
“This isn’t over,” he spat. “I got friends. They’ll get you. They’ll get the little bitch. You’ll never be safe. Never.”
Boone stood up. Walked over to Jax. Got right in his face.
“Wren is my daughter,” he said. His voice was low, dangerous. “You come near her again. You even think about her. And I will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. No cops. No courts. No deals. Just me and you. You understand me?”
Jax stared at him. For the first time, he looked scared.
The cops led Jax away. Put him in the back of a squad car. Drove off, sirens blaring.
Detective Carter walked over to us. Smiled. Tired, but happy.
“It’s over,” she said. “We got him. He’s not going away for life. He’s going away for ten life sentences. No parole. No appeals. He’ll die in prison. You’re safe. All of you.”
She got in her car. Drove away.
Boone walked over to us. Pulled me and Wren into a tight hug. Held us like he never wanted to let go. Wren grabbed a handful of his hair, giggled, and kissed his cheek.
“I love you,” he whispered into my hair. “Both of you. More than anything.”
“I love you too,” I said.
We stood there, in the cold grass, holding each other, watching the police cars vanish down the road.
May you like
It was over.
Really over.
