Page 217 of The Wright Man

"Don't say shit to Angelica unless it's through a lawyer," I said calmly, brushing my hands off like he was dirt. "Don't text her. Don't call. Don't show up anywhere near her."

I took a step forward. Just one. And dropped my voice again.

"If you do? I'll break every bone in your body. Knock out every tooth in your head. One by one. Real slow. And I'll enjoy it."

He didn't respond.

Didn't even blink.

Just nodded once and kept staring at the concrete like it might open up and swallow him.

Message received.

I turned without another word, headed back to the trunk, and loaded it into the trailer with the rest of her things.

Sticks grunted as he slid it towards the back of the trailer. "Man, I was really hoping he'd slip. Just one shove. One little shove, that's all I needed."

Riq huffed, strapping down the chair. "Say the word next time. I been itching to test out this fully-rehabbed shoulder."

I cracked a smile. "Appreciate the restraint."

Riq snorted. "Restraint my ass. I just didn't wanna step on your moment."

I shook my head and took one last look towards the house.

Gavin never moved from the garage.

Once we were back in the truck, I pulled out my phone and typed out a quick message to Angelica as Sticks pulled away from the curb.

Me: Everything's loaded. On our way back. He won't be a problem.

Then I tucked the phone in my lap, leaned back in the seat, and stared out the window.

She was safe now.

And he finally understood why he'd never get the chance to hurt her again.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Angelica

I rang the doorbell and immediately regretted not fixing my face first.

The porch light flickered overhead, casting a soft yellow glow across my wrinkled dress—once sunny, now tired—and my puffy, uneven eyes. Even though I'd showered and cleaned myself up a bit since leaving the townhouse, I could still feel the ruin all over me. My cheeks raw and irritated from tears, lips dry from biting them, hair flattened from stress and sweat and a weekend without my hair stuff.

When the door opened, I forced a smile so brittle it practically cracked on the way out.

"Hey, Daddy."

My voice was too bright. That fake kind of cheerful you try on when you hope—just maybe—you can pretend your way through it. But Chris Reed wasn't fooled. He took one look at me—just one—and all the warmth drained from his face, replaced by something hard and quiet.

He didn't say anything. Just stepped forward and wrapped me in his arms like he used to when I'd fall off my bike or flunk a math test or get emotional over whatever teenage tragedy I'd found myself in that week. The kind of hug that didn't ask questions. Didn't need explanations. It just was—steady, warm, big enough to hold every single broken piece of me without making me say a word.

I didn't even realize how tight I'd been wound until he let me breathe again.

"What happened, baby?" he asked softly when he pulled away, hands still on my shoulders.

I didn't answer. Not yet. Just looked at the man who gave me my name, my backbone, my softness, and asked, "Can I come inside?"