I sat across from her and the guilt I’d been carrying since Charlotte rose up from the place where I kept it and I couldn’t push it back down.
"I knew," I said. "I found the file and overheard him talking." My hands were shaking. "I tried to go to the police. And Tobias destroyed me for it. He ruined my career. I was afraid if I stayed he might even harm my family. So, I ran instead of fighting for you and I’ve been carrying that every day since."
Diane reached across the table and took my hand. Her grip was warm and firm, her fingers rough from years of gripping wheelchair rims, holding a little boy, and rebuilding a life one day at a time.
"You don’t need to apologize to me," she said. "Running was survival. Not cowardice. I ran too. Everyone runs from men like Tobias. The brave part isn’t standing and getting crushed. The brave part is what comes after. Rebuilding, getting up."
She squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. Sara was quiet beside us, her eyes wet, her jaw still set.
"That man is really getting us justice?" Diane said. "You’re certain?"
I glanced at the next table. Jace was sitting awkwardly as Marcus migrated back to him with the crayon box. The boy was showing him another drawing. Jace was holding it up, studying it, brow furrowed.
As though feeling my gaze, his eyes found mine across the café.
"Yeah," I said to Diane. "He’s a man of his word. You’ll get justice."
"Hold onto that," she said. "Good people like him are rare. I hope you’re always happy together."
"Yeah, I hope we always will be."
Later, we walked back to the house barefoot, the sand still warm from the day and the Gulf stretching silver and endless to our left. Jace told me about the trust somewhere between the café and the front porch, his voice steady, his eyes on the water.
A fund for Diane. Medical expenses covered, including the surgeries the insurance wouldn't pay for. Marcus's education, elementary through college. The café properly funded so Sara could hire help and stop working fourteen-hour days. A house that didn't leak when it rained.
He listed it all the way he'd list a quarterly projection. Clinical. Routine. As if rebuilding two women's lives was just another line in a budget.
"Why?" I asked.
He stopped walking and turned to me. His gray eyes were lighter out here in the Gulf light, almost silver, and for a moment he just looked at me.
"Because someone should have done this a long time ago and nobody did." His voice dropped. "And yes. It's also about you. I want you to let go of your guilt. Everything is about you now."
He scratched the back of his neck. "I don’t know how to explain it without sounding obsessive."
I took his hand. His fingers laced through mine, and we stood on the white sand with the blue water behind us.
"It's not obsessive," I said softly. "You care. Intensely and truly. I've seen it in everything you do, even the things you think no one notices."
My throat tightened. I looked at him and felt my vision go soft at the edges, but I held his gaze anyway.
"You make me happy." My voice cracked on the last word and I let it. "Thank you, Jace. For taking care of everyone."
He looked at me for a long moment, a small smile settling on his lips.
"Good," he said quietly. "That’s all I needed to hear."
The wind moved gently through the palms, and for a moment, neither of us spoke—like the world had finally gone still just for us.
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.
I didn’t.
The kiss was soft—barely there at first—like a question neither of us needed to answer out loud.
When he pulled back, he didn’t let go of my hand.
CHAPTER 23
