David rested a hand on the top rail, feeling the rough grain beneath his palm. It was a scar on the land, but it was solid. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever tear it down, or if he’d just let the honeysuckle cover it until it became part of the view.
He tossed the ball again, steady this time.
The secrets were gone.
Tomorrow didn’t feel like a sentence.
It felt like a choice.
Sunlight slanted through the windows of Harper & Associates.
Eleanor was marking a brief when Deck O’Rourke walked in and dropped a newspaper on her desk.
“You’re late,” she said, not looking up.
“I was busy being a man of the people.” He tapped a small headline:
Board of Inquiry Closes Calloway Investigation; No Ethical Violations Found
“I just came from the courthouse,” Deck said, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “Had a chat with my sources. The inquiry is officially closed. Your man is safe, Ellie-girl. He’s got nothin’ to worry about but his next reelection.”
Eleanor picked up the paper, her thumb tracing the ink.
The "Ice Queen" of Charleston was gone—buried under Blue Ridge red clay.
She looked at Deck and smiled. A real, grounded smile.
“Thank you, Deck. For everything.”
“Aye,” he said, already heading for the door. “Don’t get sentimental. Your mother has called me twice already. Answer your phone.”
The Sylva farmers’ market was a riot of strawberries and honey. No satellite trucks. No microphones. Just the steady hum of a town that had finally moved on.
Caitlin and Burke sat at a small table near the coffee stand, watching the crowd. Caitlin leaned slightly closer to the sheriff as her gaze drifted to the edge of the market where Grant, Burke’s brother, stood alone near his truck—cowboy hat pushed back, arms crossed, shoulders set, looking as immovable and shadowed as the ridge itself.
“Burke,” Caitlin said softly, “I really wish Grant had someone. He seems… lonely.”
Burke followed her gaze, unimpressed. “He’s too mean to be lonely.”
Caitlin swatted his arm, but she didn’t look away, a quiet spark of worry in her eyes.
A few yards away, Reid’s hand rested at the small of Eleanor’s back as they crossed the street—a touch that was no longer a scandal, just a fact.
Suddenly, both of their phones pinged in perfect, synchronized rhythm.
They froze.
They shared a look—that sharp, instinctive dread the last few weeks had carved into them. That sharp, familiar dread. The world reaching for them again.
Then both phones buzzed again.
“On three?” Reid asked, jaw tight.
“On three,” Eleanor said.
They pulled their phones out together.
A photo filled both screens.
