Annalise's fingers tightened around mine, my first hint she was awake. After what had felt like a lifetime, but had been more like forty-five minutes, a nurse had come to tell us that she was resting comfortably in a private room and we could see her, but to be aware that her throat was very sore and she shouldn't talk.

I'd seen fires before. I knew how quickly they could overtake a structure, how deadly the smoke could be. A few more minutes up there and Annalise could have been on a slab next to William Davis.

She might have had burns in her lungs. Her throat might have swollen shut, forcing them to intubate her to get oxygen into her body. For such a necessary organ, the lungs were terrifyingly fragile. I'd seen enough to know how lucky she was.

If she hadn't been a Winters, they would've discharged her already. We all knew they'd chosen to keep her overnight because no one wanted to make a mistake with a high-profile patient. Not one of us complained, except for Annalise, who'd argued with wide, frustrated eyes but had followed the doctor's directive not to talk.

She'd been put to bed with oxygen tubes in her nose and had fallen asleep not long after. Her family had crowded into the room to reassure themselves that she was okay, then allowed Aiden to shepherd them out. He'd said to me, “You're staying?"

"I'll bring her home tomorrow," I promised.

He'd given me a sober nod and said, "I owe you everything." Then he was gone, taking with him the rest of the Winters clan with their loud voices and endless questions.

Aiden owed me nothing. I would've done anything for Annalise. My conscience was perfectly fine with shooting William Davis and not the least bit concerned that he’d died in that house. All I had to do was remember his fingers tearing at Annalise's jeans, and I wished I'd shot him more than once. I wished I'd shot him in the balls, the fucking psycho.

Lise's fingers squeezed mine again. Her eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and swollen. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse croak.

I pressed a fingertip to her lips, holding them closed, and said, “Don't try to talk. Your throat is a mess from the smoke, and it will heal faster if you don't talk. Hold on one second."

I got up and grabbed a whiteboard and dry erase marker I'd gotten from the nurses while Annalise had slept. Too much had happened to condemn her to silence, but she'd heal faster if she let her throat rest.

"Do you want to sit up a little?" I asked. She nodded, and I adjusted the bed, raising her to a half-reclining position and handing her the dry erase board and marker. She grabbed it and started to write.

---

Marissa Archer killed my parents.

In love with William. Jealous. Crazy.

Hugh and Olivia found out.

William killed them.

In love with my mother. Wanted me to take her place.

---

So few words to sum up so much pain. A family shattered over jealousy and obsessive love. Annalise used the edge of the sheet to wipe the board clean and wrote, William?

"Dead,” I reassured her. “The smoke. We were focused on getting you out of the house, the ambulance, and Cooper was helping the firefighters get hooked up. None of us thought about Davis still in the house."

Beneath his name she wrote, Did you shoot him?

I nodded. "In the shoulder. It wouldn't have killed him. You both breathed in a lot of smoke before you got to the hall. I could barely see you when I pulled you out. A few minutes after that, visibility was probably zero. Even if we’d told them he was there, they might not have found him in time.”

Annalise stared at the whiteboard, the black marker hovering over the surface. She let out a shaky breath and wrote, I don't care. I'm glad he's dead.

"So am I," I agreed.

Maybe, if we were better people, we’d feel compassion for a clearly disturbed man who had fallen over the edge. William Davis had been the cause of so much death, pain, and heartbreak. I couldn't bring myself to feel anything but relief that he was gone.

If the Winters family wanted to have a party to celebrate his funeral, I'd be right there with them, popping the champagne cork and setting off the fireworks.

Lise wiped the board blank again and wrote,

I'm sorry.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Lise.” I reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

She shook her head and scribbled,

Let you think I didn't trust you.

I was scared.

I cupped her chin in my hand, urging her head up so I could meet her eyes. "Me too," I said. "I was scared too."

She wrote again, her hand moving over the whiteboard in fast, loose strokes.

Love you. Always. Always loved you.

"Me too," I said. "I never should have let you leave. I should have known that letter was a lie. I should've told Aiden to go to hell. I should've believed in you because I loved you. Because I knew who you were."

She shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes, leaving tracks through the smudges of soot the nurses had missed when they'd cleaned her up. She picked up the pen to write, but I closed my fingers over hers and said, “Just listen, for a minute. Please."

Her fingers went lax on the pen, and she looked at me, her eyes searching. Waiting.

"I fell for you so hard back then," I said. "You scared the hell out of me. I didn't know which way was up. I wasn't supposed to talk to you, and I couldn't stay away. I risked my job, and I didn't even care, but the whole time I was so sure it was going to end. I convinced myself you were too good for me, and when I got your letter, when Aiden gave me that lame-ass story about you running off with an old boyfriend, I let myself believe him because it was what I'd expected to hear in the first place."

Lise turned her hand and grabbed mine, pulling at my arm, reaching for the pen.

"Let me finish, Lise." Her blue eyes pained, she fell still. "I blew it back then. And I blew it a second time when you came home and I lied to you again about who I was and how we met. I don't have an excuse. It was fear and bullshit just like the first time. I told myself I was over you. Then I told myself it didn't matter. I was lying to you, and I was lying to myself. What we have between us, that's the only thing that matters. I love you. I've loved you since the day you almost spilled your coffee on me. I will never stop loving you."

She tugged her hand from mine and went for the pen again. I held it out of reach, over her head and said, “One more thing, and then it's your turn."

She dropped her hand and glared at me.

"I will never lie to you again. Not because it's easy. Not because I'm afraid. Not because I forgot to take the trash out. Not for any reason. I swear. If you can't do anything else for the rest of your life, you can trust me. I know why—"

Lise lunged up and snatched the pen from my hand, yanking her oxygen tubes out of place. She sat back and shoved the plastic prongs back in her nose. Scratching furiously on the whiteboard she wrote,

My fault too. I shouldn't have run.

Never trusted you, and I should have.

Not going to run again.

I trust you.

I know who you are. I know your heart.

Love you.

I pulled the whiteboard and pen from her hands and set them on the table beside the bed. Digging into the small watch pocket of my jeans, I pulled out the ring I'd put on her finger barely two weeks before. The ring she’d thrown in my face.

Holding it up in the light, I said, "I bought this for you. Not for the job. For you. The job is over. William is dead, and you're safe. For the first time since you were sixteen, you have choices. I'm asking you to choose me. Choose me and let me spend the rest of my life making you happy."

She held up her left hand and mouthed, yes.

I slid the ring onto her finger, where it belonged, and stood. I nudged her hip, and she slid over in the narrow bed. Climbing in beside her, careful not to tug on the oxygen tubes, I settled my head on the pillow next to hers, not caring that she smelled of smoke.

She was safe. She was alive. And she was mine. Forever.

Her lips parted, and I pressed a kiss to them, stopping her words.

"Let your throat rest. You have plenty of time to talk later."

A disgruntled noise rumbled in her throat. I tried to hide my smile, but she saw it in my eyes and hers narrowed in annoyance.

I kissed the line of her jaw and murmured, my lips brushing her skin, “Is it wrong that I'm enjoying getting the last word? Getting all the words?"

She made that irritated sound again, and this time I laughed. "Don't worry, as soon as your throat is healed you can talk my ear off. I'll listen to you all day if that's what you want."

Mimicking my earlier action, she pressed her fingertips to my lips, holding them closed, and mouthed, I love you.

I caught her fingers in mine and held them, resting our hands on her stomach, my legs tangled with hers, our heads touching on the pillow.

"Go to sleep, Lise. When you wake up in the morning, I'll take you home."

With a contented sigh, she rubbed her forehead against mine and let her eyelids slide shut. I watched her sleep, my own eyes heavy, the sparkle of the ring on her finger like stars in the night sky, their light imprinted on my memory, following me into sleep.