The pieces were in place. They were rock solid.
The expression on my dad’s face as he put one and one together was almost as satisfying as knowing Myers would never hurt anybody ever again.
It was almost as satisfying as knowing my mother could finally rest in peace. Free from new murder allegations. And my grandmother would close her eyes one day without wondering where Myers was.
Amanda. Lila. Ethan. They would sleep again too. No more waking up wondering if Myers would show up to hurt us. No more glancing over shoulders in parking lots. The people I loved were finally breathing again.
My grandma’s fingers trembled as she clutched the wristband with my mother’s picture in her hand. As if she wassaying, “Sweetheart, it’s over. We won. Rest now. I’ll see you soon.”
My eyes went back to my dad.
“The police say they’ll close the case quietly,” I said, my voice steady. “They think it was some drug dealer or pimp who shot Myers. And unless somebody steps forward with tips or new evidence—I don’t know, like some gas station footage or something—the case is pretty much closed. So we can finally move on. Right, Dad?”
Was it fear flickering over his tense face? Fear from thinking I had found out the truth? That he was the one who got Zach killed? Or fear that I killed Myers and made it look like he did?
“Aren’t we, Dad?” I repeated, slower this time. “Moving on? Living the best life we possibly can?”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“Dad?” Lila asked. “You okay?”
“Oh, uh, yes,” he said, forcing a smile. “Sorry. All this is just so shocking.”
“It is,” Amanda said, nodding. “Would it be wrong to get some champagne? I mean … someone died. Even if that someone was a monster.”
“No,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea. Very fitting. Celebrating the death of a monster. Right, Dad?”
“Y-yes,” he said.
Amanda rushed toward the kitchen, but I stopped her. “Amanda.”
She turned, curious.
“Do you remember that Christmas dress you used to wear years ago? The one with that ugly reindeer stitched on it?”
“My ugly Christmas dress! Of course I do. My mom made it for me before she died. For our ugly sweater party.”
“Do you still have it?” I asked.
“I … do.” She looked at my dad. A quick glance. “But your dad kinda hates it. He likes when I wear short—”
“Nah,” I cut in gently. “Dad just told me the other day he’d love to see you wear some of your old clothes again. The ones you chose for yourself.”
She laughed awkwardly. “You’re funny.”
Not funny.
Changing things.
Poor Amanda.
Sure, what she did back then, cheating with him while he was still married to my mom, wasn’t right. And we were angry with her for a long time. But, God, she’d paid for it. Her husband murdered. And my dad had also cheated on her after childbirth changed her body. As if stretch marks were sins in the Bible.
Like my mom, Amanda had given him everything. Her money. Her time. Her youth. Raised his kids with the kind of love a real mom gives. School lunches packed before sunrise, homework checked at the kitchen table, sitting through fevers and nightmares and teenage tantrums while he went on golf trips. Doing those ridiculous plastic surgeries for him too.
And still it wasn’t enough.
