Page 54 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
“Well chosen.” A beat. “What do you need?”
“Transfer,” I say. “Permanent Saint Pierce. I can lead the post. We keep the Denver relationship tight, and I’ll take rotations if Mel says yes. But my home is here now.”
There’s a smile in his voice I didn’t know I needed. “Consider it done. We’ll paper it after the holiday. Asher can bridge, and I’ll send Ranger for a week to help you set up comms. And Lucas—” He clears his throat like he’s trying not to say the word proud out loud. “Good call.”
“Thank you,” I say, and mean far more than the logistics.
We lay out the last pieces. Hale’s patterns. Mercer’s tells. The plan is simple because that’s what works: We don’t confront; we corral. We let Hale keep thinking Mercer has something, then we let Mercer realize the only way to get paid is to show his client what he “found.” We make sure what he found is a folder that shows our protocols working, our clients safe, our methods boring to anyone except professionals. We salt it with a trail that points back to the buyers. When Hale tries to lift it, we let him—on a camera we own.
“Quiet cleanup,” Duke says. “No fireworks. New Year’s can be for something else this time.”
“Like sleep,” Gunner says. “Or diapers.”
We break with a plan and a timeline and the kind of clean breath I haven’t taken since the gray sedan showed up in my mirror. Duke claps my shoulder on the way out—a move that saysI’ve got youin his language. Gunner shoves a bag with two cinnamon rolls into my hands—my language.
Back on the sidewalk, I look north. The sky is that deep winter blue that makes the world feel crisp and honest. The street’s still sloppy, but people are out—neighbors who made it through the storm, dogs who have opinions about salt, a woman hauling a sled with groceries and a toddler who is clearly the CEO of the operation.
I take the long way to the apartment on purpose, pass the tree lot now under a lace of ice, the mural alley where we learned we were being watched, the bookstore where Melanie tried to buy me a first edition like it was a snack. The city feels smaller, doable. Like a map I’ve walked enough to stop needing to stare at.
Upstairs, Amelia meets me at the door with a look that is equal parts feral and delighted. “He made a face that looked exactly like yours,” she whispers, like it’s classified. “Also, he has opinions about socks.”
Margaret hugs me like I earned something. Maybe I did. She heads out with Amelia to run interference on the world for an hour, leaving the three of us in a bubble I would defend with my life and my lists.
Mel is in the rocking chair, Ev collapsed against her like he’s already mastered the art of delegation. I kneel beside them, kiss her knee, then her mouth, then our son’s impossible forehead.
“How was work?” she asks, smiling because she knows the answer is shorter than it used to be.
“Clean enough,” I say. “Hale’s probably a poacher. Mercer’s a salesman. We’ll box them with their own stories and go back to feeding Ev and not sleeping.” I swallow, then let the other part out. “I called Dean.”
Her eyes sharpen with hope she’s trying not to weaponize. “And?”
“I’m moving here,” I say. “Permanent. If you’ll have me.”
She doesn’t cry. She does that smile that hits me like a sunrise. “Ask, don’t assume,” she says softly.
“I’ll ask everything,” I promise, and then I do the thing that’s really the point. “Can I take first shift tonight so you can shower and sleep for three hours in a row?”
She laughs—sleepy, disbelieving, grateful. “Yes.”
I take my son from her and he settles like he knows my heartbeat now. He opens his eyes just enough to judge me, then closes them again like I passed his inspection. I walk him to the window, show him his town in winter, the branch with two stubborn leaves, the neighbor’s ridiculous inflatable snowman that made it through the storm by sheer stubborness.
“Welcome to Saint Pierce, Everett,” I tell him. “We’re going to like it here.”
Behind me, Melanie stands in the doorway, hair up, a towel slung over one shoulder like a flag. She looks at us like I’ve given her a thing I didn’t know I had in my pocket.
Outside, the street brightens. The city goes about its business. Somewhere, Hale and Mercer are walking themselves into a tidy corner. Duke and Gunner are two steps ahead with a folder full of boredom on purpose. Dean is drafting a transfer letter that will sit in a frame I’ll pretend not to hang.
In here, my son sleeps in my arms and the woman I love leans her head on my shoulder and laughs at nothing because sometimes safety sounds like that.
Closure isn’t a door slamming. It’s a wedge under the one that matters and the choice to stay.
“Hey, Ev,” I whisper, because it feels important to announce it. “Your dad lives here now.”
He sighs, a small, satisfied sound. I take it as permission and promise all at once.
22
Melanie
