28

THE END

(Present Day)

It’s a strange thing to know you’re a widow.

I’ve seen good, decent women react to that news before, falling to their knees and screaming in agony, a part of their soul ripped away. I’ve also seen Tara react to that news before, in a huff of irritation and outrage, her bags packed and the cab waiting before it had time to settle.

I feel neither of these things. Standing outside the room that contains all that’s left of my husband, I have neither voice nor body. I’m only numb.

“Pen, don’t—” Riker tries to prevent me from twisting the doorknob, but I have to know. I have to see.

I notice his body right away, a huddled lump near a desk on the far side of the room. It’s almost funny how much one man’s body looks like another when the life has been extinguished. From here, it looks like he shares several characteristics with the man Riker felled over by the elevators—the same tilt to his head and slack jaw, the same eyes closed against the world, fluttering to wakefulness.

Wakefulness?

With a cry still lodged in the base of my throat, I take stilted steps toward the body. It isn’t dead. He isn’t dead. I’m not too late.

I stop before I get far into the room as the man groans again and rolls onto his back. I don’t recognize the pug nose or the pointed chin, and I would never have fallen for someone who could so casually wear that shade of green. Not only is the man on the ground not dead, he’s also not Grant. I cast a wide-eyed glance around me, scanning for the familiar dark-blond curls that run like silk through my fingers.

I see more slumped bodies, groaning bodies, huddled bodies…none of which are his. Nor is he the man standing behind the desk, the one with his arms raised as if there’s a gun pointed at his head.

“Penelope, you’re blocking my aim.” Grant’s voice sounds from behind me before I can make sense of my surroundings. “Do you think you could move about two feet to your left?”

I turn and release the scream that the good, decent woman inside me has been holding hostage—and for once, I’m not ashamed. I’d scream a thousand times if it meant I could capture this moment forever.

“Grant!” Even though the gun is now technically pointed at me, I don’t hesitate in throwing myself the remainder of the distance and burying my head in his chest. I’ve always loved the smell of him—soap warmed by skin and sweat, the fabric softener all our clothes share—but I’m not sure I’ve ever appreciated it as much as I do right now. “You’re not dead. You’re here. You’re alive.”

“Of course I’m not dead,” he says, amusement in his voice. Amusement and something more—something that catches in our throats, binding us. “I’m incredibly hard to kill. I hope you weren’t looking forward to cashing in on that lovely insurance policy just yet.”

“But Tara is crying out in the hall, and there are all these bad guys…” I’m pretty sure I’m getting tears and snot all over his chest, but I don’t care. I burrow deeper until he’s forced to hold me awkwardly, one arm around my shoulders while the other grips the gun. “We broke in to come rescue you.”

“I can see we might have saved ourselves the trouble,” Riker says from behind me. The cock of another gun—the one he took from the hallway guard—fills the room. “Don’t worry, Emerson. I’ll cover him while you two have your little reunion. My aim’s a lot better than Pen’s.”

At the sound of Riker’s voice, dry enough to turn this room into a desert, Grant stiffens. I hate that he stiffens, hate even more that he went up against this room full of scary men believing I didn’t love him. Even though his arm drops from around me, I cling tighter.

We can’t both let go. We can’t both give up.

“I’d rather not lose my advantage, if you don’t mind,” Grant says. “In case you haven’t noticed, I went to considerable lengths to secure it.”

Riker laughs. “I noticed. Do you mind if I ask why we’re holding Blackrock at gunpoint?”

“I’m deciding whether or not I want to kill him.”

“I see,” Riker says, which makes one of us.

“I don’t suppose I get any say in the matter?” Blackrock’s smooth, clipped, familiar voice weighs in. It comes from the other side of the room, which means it must belong to Blackrock. “A few years ago, I might’ve told you to have at it, but I’m suddenly discovering I have a wealth of things to live for.”

I drop my arms slowly from around Grant’s waist, and the room makes dizzy revolutions around me as I turn.

Blackrock’s face comes into focus. It takes me a moment—and several deep breaths—before his features register. Eyes and nose, mouth and cheeks. The tall, thin form. All the parts are there, as familiar to me as my own, but aged ten years and lined with the kind of worry that only a decade of hard usage could bring.

“Daddy?”

Despite the pair of guns pointed at him, Blackrock lowers his hands. “Oh, baby doll. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”