Page 91 of The Golden Hour

Until this moment, though, I don’t think I realized just how real the threat was. Or maybe deep down I believed I wouldn’t make it out of this alive. Either way, I’m glad I never met any of the Chicago family, and with luck I never will.

For a few minutes, I stay where I am and breathe. In for four seconds, out for six. In. Out. Until the tremor in my hands fades. Until my heart rate lowers. Until the haze clears from the edges of my vision.

Wilson said having anxiety, and more specifically panic attacks, is normal given the circumstances. That in all likelihood, I have post-traumatic stress. She thinks I’d benefit from steady therapy, potentially some medication to help me through the next few months or years.

I know she means well. And there’s a solid chance she’s right. But for now, I’ll breathe.

And be thankful for my life.

For today.

Finn and I are having dinner tonight with Rabbit and her boyfriend. I can’t wait to see her and meet her love—have her meet mine. Hug her and actually see what color her hair is.

And then?

I’m going home.

Epilogue

Five Months Later

“Here, you look like you need this.” My mom pushes a frosty bottle of beer into my hands, then sits beside me on the bench. “I’ve never seen them take to someone so fast.”

Across the backyard, I can barely see my girlfriend’s head beyond the three-woman wall of my sisters. Compared to Callisto, the lot of them are Amazons. But I hear her voice, clear and confident. Her laughter, unrestrained, with that touch of smoke that makes me think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about while sitting next to my mom.

“She’s holding her own.”

My smile is smug. “That she is.”

“If you want to head inside, I’ll take over out here for a bit.”

All three of my brothers-in-law are watching sports. They’re nice enough people, but I’d rather stir-fry my own balls.

“I’m good, thanks.”

This is exactly where I want to be.

On the other side of the backyard, Aunt Molly is teaching my oldest nephews—eight and ten years old—how to grill the perfect steak. Two more boys and three girls, all under the age of seven, are destroying Mom’s garden as they chase butterflies and squeal over earthworms.

I’m technically in charge of the tiny savages. Five minutes ago, they were shoving dirt clumps under my shirt and spitting on my shoes. Since no one’s bleeding and no one’s crying, I decided I’d earned a little break.

If I keep this up, I’ll be Uncle of the Year in no time.

“Did she see the news last night?” asks my mom, her voice pitched low.

And just like that, I’m not thinking about the kids anymore. After a heavy swallow of beer, I nod. “Detective Wilson called before the story broke.”

“Is she okay?”

“Define okay.”

“Fair enough. How about you? How are you doing?”

I shrug. “It’s a mixed bag. I’m relieved, and I’m pissed she won’t stand trial. She deserved to suffer more. Does that make me a shitty person?”

“No. It makes you human.” She takes a swig from her bottle, her eyes soft on her grandkids. “I feel the same way, but mostly I’m glad she’s gone.”

Yesterday morning, Vivian Avellino was found dead in her cell from an apparent suicide by hanging. Good fucking riddance with a side of enjoy roasting marshmallows in Hell, right?

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