Chapter Twenty
~ Decker ~
I sat on the edge of the bed with my phone face-up in my palm, watching the minutes tick down toward noon. Jasper pressed against my side, one hand flat on the swell of his belly, the other gripping the mattress edge with enough force to whiten his knuckles.
We’d been sitting like this for twenty minutes already, not talking, just waiting for the call that would tell us whether the life we’d built here could stay built.
The bedroom window was open, a cool breeze carrying the scent of pine and cut hay through the screen. The Black Butte mountain was visible through the glass—dark and solid against the pale summer sky, exactly where it had been when we’d faced Gerald in the yard three months ago.
Jasper’s breathing was steady beside me—not the quick, shallow inhalations of the early days, but the rhythm of a man who’d learned to wait without panicking.
His hair had grown out since Nebraska, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger despite the carefulness that still lived around the edges of his expression.
I’d been waiting for things that mattered for decades—since my first combat deployment, maybe even before that. I’d learned the stillness that came with it.
My phone screen remained dark, the minutes on the digital clock moving from 11:57 to 11:58 with the slowness that happened when you were watching for it.
Jasper shifted slightly, adjusting his position to accommodate the baby that had decided my ribs made an excellent push-off point. The doctor had said two weeks, maybe less—the careful phrasing that medical professionals used whenthey knew exactly what was coming, but couldn’t guarantee when.
I’d put together a bag three days ago—the hospital paperwork Carter had arranged, the clothes Jasper had decided he wanted for the baby, the phone chargers and extra socks and protein bars that experience had taught me actually mattered when your life went sideways at three in the morning.
The clock ticked to 11:59, and Jasper’s hand came to rest on my knee—not a gesture, just a presence.
I turned my palm over and caught his fingers, squeezing once—brief, definitive—and then let go so I could answer when the phone rang.
It happened at noon exactly—the three-tone chime I’d assigned to Carver’s number, the screen lighting up with his name and contact information. I swiped to answer and hit speaker in one motion, not wanting Jasper to hear anything secondhand.
“Reynolds,” Carver said, his voice carrying the dry, unhurried quality I recognized from a dozen prior conversations. “You there?”
“I’m here,” I said, keeping it simple. “Jasper’s with me.”
There was a brief pause—the hesitation of a man deciding how much detail to include—and then Carver continued. “Hughs is in federal custody,” he said, each word precise. “No bail. Judge Martinez in Omaha, not his usual venue. The preliminary hearing’s scheduled for next Thursday, but given what we’ve got, his lawyers are already talking plea deal.”
Jasper’s breath caught—a quick, sharp inhale that I felt against my side. I kept my eyes on his face, watching the play of emotions across his features.
“The shooters copped to hired-muscle charges,” Carver continued. “Gave up enough detail to sink Hughs on conspiracy—the hospital layoff through his board contact, the priorNebraska incidents that were settled out of court, the full Montana operation.” A pause, brief but deliberate. “They’re looking at fifteen to twenty, minimum. Hughs is facing thirty on the federal charges alone, plus whatever Nebraska and Montana add to it.”
I nodded, though Carver couldn’t see it. “And the evidence package?”
“Solid,” Carver said, satisfaction bleeding into his tone. “Sterling’s people did good work. His connections at the NSA pulled the financials—three separate payment chains to the Nebraska crew, another two to the Montana team. Burke’s contacts at Homeland pushed it through the right channels. Hughs’s legal team is good, but they can’t argue with bank transfers and text messages.”
Jasper’s hand had come up to cover his mouth, his eyes fixed on the phone between us. I reached over and put my palm flat against his back, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“There’s one more thing,” Carver said, voice shifting to the particular tone I recognized from deposition prep—careful, precise, nothing left to interpretation. “The judge ordered Hughs’s estate liquidated. Proceeds split among documented victims. Your husband’s share comes out to just under two million dollars.”
The wrongness of that statement—Hughs’s money, Jasper’s face, the trauma against dollar amounts—landed somewhere beneath my sternum.
I watched Jasper’s face move through shock and then go very still, both hands pressing against his belly, his eyes fixed somewhere past the window.
“Jasper?” I said, voice carrying a question that wasn’t quite a question.
He nodded once—tight, definitive—but didn’t speak.
“Thanks, Carver,” I said, keeping it simple. “We appreciate the call.”
“Anytime,” Carver said, the warmth in his voice at odds with the formality of the information he’d just delivered. “Take care of that baby, Reynolds. I’ll be in touch after the plea hearing.”
I ended the call and set the phone on the nightstand, then turned to look at Jasper directly. He hadn’t moved—still sitting with his back straight, hands pressed to his belly, jaw loose, shoulders dropped two inches lower than they’d been a minute ago. Like a man who’d set down something so heavy he’d forgotten the weight was separate from him.
