No Perfect Hero(109)

It’s just me and Haley here.

And that’s all I need.





23





Over the Edge (Haley)





So ends the longest month of my life.

Depositions. Witness interviews. Reliving our hell on Earth with Stewart hundreds of times.

I’ve retold our tale to lawyers, to cops, even to the FBI and DEA – and there's more to come.

Turns out, Stewart was crossing state lines with his drug operation, using undercover freight rentals parked on Dennis Bress' properties to move heroin to distributors who'd shuttle it all down the West Coast.

The asshole was even involved in tax fraud, and while he isn't here anymore for a confession, a few of the old guys from his unit who worked in his shop came clean about what they actually saw the day of Jenna Ford’s death.

They’d been in Stew’s pocket the entire time, generously bribed. Part of his operation, which he started overseas with pure Afghan heroin and turned into one of the most secretive drug pipelines from Wyoming through the Cascades.

The money was too good. They were happy to lie about a good woman’s death when he executed her for finding him out.

Of course, they flipped pretty fast once their boss went down. A few tried to flee town and didn't get far. There’s no money in prison for aiding and abetting, but there’s some small benefit in plea deals.

It’s not just Stewart we’ve been talking about, though.

I’ve been grilled repeatedly over what happened that day, the only witness to Stewart's total meltdown.

He didn’t survive the crash, and everyone wants to know how he died, if there was any foul play involved. I know they’re just covering their bases, making sure they can sign off on Warren’s innocence without question.

But I hate feeling like I’m the guilty party here, even though they can’t ask Stewart anything from the county morgue.

That’s probably too morbid.

But I’m tired. I get to be a little morbid after this shitshow.

I miss Tara, too. I flat out told the cops they were getting one interview with her on video and nothing else.

She’s a minor, and her parents aren’t here to consent. And after how traumatized she was...no.

Hell no.

She might be my niece, but I’ve turned protective mama bear anyway. It broke my heart how every night she'd wake up screaming for the last week she stayed here, crawling into bed to take comfort, sandwiched between me and Warren so we could protect her from her nightmares of “the smiling man.”

But she’s home now.

Marie came out to get her, instead of having her fly back alone.

If I ever doubted the bond between my sister and her daughter, the way Tara lit up and a weight seemed to shrug off her erased those doubts. I know she’ll be okay.

She’s smart. She’s resilient. She’s strong.

She’ll need some therapy, but Marie will take good care of her. So will John, as they ease into what they’re doing.

The divorce won't make this any easier. But Jesus, I'm going to keep Tara my bright, sweet little girl.

I'll keep her happy no matter what it takes or how many times I have to fly out to Seattle.

And I think, now that everything’s over, I can be happy too.

Especially since Warren's been amazing.

Before, I wondered if we were jumping the gun wanting everything from this brief, intense connection...but it’s turned out to be everything.

All the love I never imagined and then some.

We still bicker, but it’s just play. We challenge, giving each other crap. We push and pull until we fill each other’s gaps and complement our differences as much as we highlight how we’re alike.

And somehow, the sniping and the teasing always turn to kisses. Warmth. Touches.

Sometimes we’re gentle and slow.

A lot of times it’s rough and fast with the fury we play at in our mock arguments, turning into real, burning passion. He makes it easy to forget that scary feeling of dangling over the edge, moments away from dying, while he reached for me with so much naked fear on his face.

You never know how much you mean to a man until he's on the verge of losing you.

Then they react. With brutal indifference or total, heart-stomping love.

And Warren makes it easy to believe in a future here in Heart’s Edge.

Screw Chicago. I'm not moving.

One little accident dumped me right where I needed to be and tested my soul. I know it now.

This is where I fit. It’s perfect. It’s right. It's beautiful.

It’s home.

And it’s also nearly midnight, marking the end of the first day of my wonky little exhibit in the small Heart’s Edge gallery, featuring my first collection of paintings depicting Heart’s Edge in traditional ukiyo-e style, capturing the town as though it’s part of another world.

Which is why I’m giddy, leaning against the railing of the cabin that’s become home for now, sipping champagne with Warren tucked against my back and Mozart draped on the deck railing a few feet away, the cat happily sprawled out, taking in the evening as much as we are.

“So, beautiful,” Warren drawls, kissing my shoulder. “How do you feel about the whole town coming out to buy your work?”

“A little weird. I feel like they only did it because they wanted to support me,” I answer with a dry laugh. “Not because they like my work. But, hey, it’s a start. And I got a feature in the Spokane newspaper, so maybe I’ll scale up to bigger galleries.”