“Your father’s having a good day. He’s in the garden—asked about you this morning.” She reached for her walker. “Let’s go find him.”
David Wright sat on his favorite bench beneath a flowering magnolia, watching hummingbirds dart between feeders. The dementia had stolen pieces of him over the years—memories, words, the ability to always recognize the people he loved. But today his eyes were clear when he looked up.
“Little bird.” His voice cracked on the childhood nickname. “You came.”
“I came.” Narla crossed to him, knelt at his feet, took his trembling hands in hers. “Dad, I need to tell you something. Something I should have told you years ago.”
Rose settled into a chair nearby. Wyatt hung back, close enough that Narla could feel his presence through the bond, far enough to give the family privacy.
She told them.
Not everything—not the Devourer’s true form, not the dark fire, not the details that would give them nightmares. But enough.
She told them Niccolas hadn’t died in an accident. That Derren—his trusted business partner—had killed him.
She told them Clara’s death wasn’t an accident either. That she’d tried to help Narla and paid with her life.
She told them she’d been hiding for years, too afraid to speak, too afraid to put anyone else at risk.
And she told them it was over now. That Derren was dead. That the threat that had haunted her for years had finally been destroyed.
When she finished, Rose was crying silently, tears tracking down weathered cheeks. David’s hands had gone still in hers, his expression cycling through grief and anger and something that looked almost like pride.
“You carried this alone.” Rose’s voice was thick. “All this time. You carried it alone.”
“I couldn’t risk you. If Derren had known I’d told anyone?—”
“We’re your parents.” Rose reached out and gripped Narla’s shoulder. “We should have been there.”
“You were.” The tears Narla had been holding back finally spilled over. “Every Sunday phone call. Every time you told me you loved me. You kept me going. Even when I couldn’t explain why I needed it.”
David’s grip tightened on her hands. When he spoke—one of those unexpected windows of clarity that opened without warning and closed just as fast, the dementia retreating for a breath or two—his voice was steady.
“Clara.” His eyes were wet. “She was always the brave one. Couldn’t stand by when someone needed help.” He lifted Narla’s hands, kissed her knuckles gently. “She’d be proud of you. For fighting back. For stopping him.”
Grief and relief surged through Narla’s chest.
“I miss her,” she whispered. “I miss her so much.”
“I know, little bird.” David’s thumb traced gentle circles on her hands. “But you’re safe now. You’re safe, and you’re loved, and you’re not alone anymore.”
He looked past her, toward where Wyatt stood in watchful silence.
“That one. He loves you?”
“He does.”
“Good.” The clarity was fading now, the dementia reclaiming its hold. “Clara always said you needed someone to watch over you. Someone as stubborn as you are.”
Narla’s breath caught. Clara had said that—years ago, before Niccolas, before everything fell apart. She’d forgotten until now.
“He’s very stubborn.”
“Good.” David’s eyes had gone unfocused. “That’s good.”
Rose gathered Narla into her arms, holding tight, and for a long moment, they just breathed together. Mother and daughter. Survivor and witness. Two women mourning what had been lost while celebrating what remained.
“Bring him back,” Rose murmured against Narla’s hair. “Your stubborn panther. I want to interrogate him properly.”
