TRUE

EPILOGUE

        Yesterday was my 82nd birthday. Everyone came over, brought dinner, cake, and presents. The cottage was full of laughter and noise and happiness. These moments are what keeps me going when I feel too tired to keep up appearances.

        Today it's quiet again. There's still evidence left behind: a cluster of balloons hovering  just above the floor in the corner of the kitchen, two leftover slices of chocolate cake in the fridge, Bradley's Batman figurine on the back of the downstairs toilet.

        I love having them here in spite of the chaos they inevitably bring. Looking into those faces, listening to those voices, is proof positive that I will be leaving something behind on this Earth of value and importance. They are good people, all of them. Funny and kind and bright. Huge hearts. Raised right, I think.

        I had an excellent partner in that endeavor. All of the good in our children and grandchildren I credit to my other half.

        She was the best of us.

        Everly is no longer here. But her goodness lives on in her children, and they have passed it along to theirs.

        It's in me too, I hope.

        I don't remember everything from that night. But the important things, they stick: running to keep her safe, the feel of her hand in mine when I finally had her in my grasp, the scent of her hair as I whispered and braced for the end of our lives. The look of utter love and relief on her face when my eyes finally opened after.

        The rest is a story that's been told too many times. The collapse of the house, Everly sure she'd left me to die alone, and the miraculous moment when the firefighters found and pulled me, alive, from smoldering rubble. She'd saved me, without knowing it. When Everly had fled my side to seek help, I'd been under an archway. It was the form of that support, the strength of it's construction, that held back enough of the debris' weight to keep me safe.

        She always was the hero.

        There were, however, three losses that night. Jerry Samuels, the kind police officer murdered by Clara Kinney in front of our house. Archie McDonnell, the firefighter that, thank God, passed Everly to Detective Lang to keep her from re-entering the burning building. He was the first to step into the house and perished in the collapse. If he'd not denied Everly, she would have been standing in front of him, lost as well.

        And Clara. She'd been shot by me and also by Everly, a fact I hadn't known at the time. My shot, in her side, was a mortal wound. We believe that when she'd realized that, she decided to take us out with her. It is only by luck and good fortune that she didn't kill us.

        Everly would deny that. She would say that it was my quick thinking, the willingness to be the barrier between her and the blast, that saved her.

        Clara had a history of mental illness that had gotten her fired from job after job as a nurse. She was obsessed with having a baby. And when her brother Tate set his sights on Everly, it began the domino effect that led to all of the madness we lived through. The police were able to piece things together enough to paint a picture of their lunacy. Tate wanted Everly. Clara wanted Noah. The job reference I called when "Andrea" applied: Tate. They were willing to do anything to get what they wanted.

        Anything.

        Everly and I spent three years trying to outrun those two. Three years that harbored much heartache and loss. We both suffered mightily because of them. My beloved endured the worst of it.