Page 82 of Finding His Redemption

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled through the article, scanning the horrific details. Jax had held Alexis hostage and sliced her throat right in front of Shane. The only reason she was alive today was due to Shane’s SEAL training and pure, dumb luck.

God. It was all so much worse than she’d suspected.

Nessie clicked on another link, this one with a more recent date.

DNA EVIDENCE CLEARS EX-SEAL OF SERIAL MURDERS, ASSAULT CONVICTION STANDS

The article was shorter, clinical in its detachment. New DNA evidence had definitively linked the Shadow Stalker murders to two men, a father and son team. But Jax was still convicted for the vicious assault on Alexis and sentenced to ten years in prison, the first two of which he’d spent in the prison psych ward. In one of the articles, she found a statement from his lawyer, Callum Holden.

“Jaxon Thorne was suffering from severe PTSD and psychosis at the time of the assault,” Holden was quoted as saying. “The combination of combat trauma, sleep deprivation, drug use, and untreated mental health issues created a perfect storm. He’s accepting responsibility for his actions, but he was failed by the system long before this incident occurred.”

Nessie clicked through more articles, piecing together the fragments of Jax’s shattered past. The attack in Afghanistan. The deaths of his teammates. His honorable discharge. And then the spiral into alcohol and drug abuse, erratic behavior, and eventually violence.

One article included quotes from his sentencing hearing. His former commanding officer, Shane Trevisano, and Rylan Cross, another of his former teammates, both called for leniency.

“He was the best operator I ever worked with,” Shane had said. “But what happened to us over there... it changed all of us.”

“The man who came home wasn’t the same man we served with,” Rylan had added.

Even Alexis had forgiven him in her victim impact statement and asked the judge to go easy, as he obviously needed help, not prison. But the judge had been unmoved, citing the brutality and calculation of the attack and the need to protect society.

Nessie leaned back against her headboard and closed her eyes, trying to reconcile the violent, broken man in those articles with the one who’d fixed her tire and her door, who’d been sogentle with Oliver, who’d defended her against Deputy Murdock without hesitation.

The final article was the most recent, dated just last month:

CONVICTED EX-SEAL RELEASED ON PAROLE AFTER SERVING HALF OF 10-YEAR SENTENCE

The photo accompanying this one showed the Jax she’d met on the road that night. Still lean, but no longer skeletal, as he stood with a dog, the prison yard in the background. His hair was cropped shorter, neater, and his eyes, while still haunted, held determination. The stubborn will to survive. To become something better than what the world had decided he was. He was even smiling the tiniest bit, a slight upward curve of his lips.

She clicked on the article and quickly scanned it. It mentioned his exemplary behavior in prison, his work in the prison dog program, and his completion of every available therapy and anger management course.

“Mr. Thorne has paid his debt to society,” the parole board statement read. “And has demonstrated genuine remorse and a commitment to rehabilitation.”

But the comments section below told a different story. People calling for his blood. Saying he should have been locked up for life. That he was the real Shadow Stalker and had gotten away with murder.

The vitriol made her physically ill. These people didn’t know him, not the real him. They were passing judgment based on headlines and snapshots of his worst moments.

Just like everyone in Solace was doing now.

Nessie closed the laptop with more force than necessary, pushing it away as if it might burn her. She drew her knees toher chest, wrapping her arms around them as she stared into the darkness of her bedroom.

The man she’d met on that road was damaged, yes. Haunted, certainly. But there had been nothing in his eyes that suggested he was capable of the kind of depraved violence that had taken Bailee Cooper’s life. And nothing in his careful interactions with Oliver suggested he was a danger to them.

She knew predators. Had lived with one for six years. Had learned to read the subtle signs—the proprietary way they looked at you, the casual cruelty disguised as concern, the way they isolated you from anyone who might help.

Jax was nothing like that. If anything, he’d tried to push her away, to protect her from the trouble that followed him like a shadow.

The memory of his face when she’d shown up at the ranch with muffins floated to the surface. The genuine confusion in his eyes when she’d offered to help. Like he couldn’t fathom why anyone would stick their neck out for him.

She slid off the bed and padded to the window, pushing aside the curtain to stare at the darkened street below. Her reflection stared back, ghostly pale against the night. Five years ago, if someone had shown her these articles about Jax, she would have joined the chorus calling for his head.

But that was before Alek. Before she’d learned what real monsters looked like. How they hid behind charming smiles and expensive suits, whispered sweet promises while plotting violence.

“People can change,” she whispered to her reflection. “I did.”

She thought of all the other people she’d been in her life. Born Jennifer Westbrook in a suburb of Seattle, she’d been a track star in high school, which was the only reason she hadn’t been considered a nerd for her love of theater. She’d had big dreams of becoming a famous actress and turned down severaltrack scholarships to move to LA as soon as she graduated. There, she changed her name to the more exotic-sounding Genessa-Rae Westbrook and worked as a waitress while she waited for her big break.

And that was how she met Aleksandr Sarkisian.

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