Written with You (The Regret Duet #2)(68)

Jenn died that day. Recordings from my security cameras revealed that Trent had choked his loving wife with his bare hands. In a miracle, Alejandra survived. She’d sustained quite a few injuries, including a broken cheekbone, cracked ribs, and swelling on her brain. She’d put up one hell of a fight, but she was no match for Trent. An oblivious Rosalee had interrupted him before he’d been able to ensure she was dead. It was quite possibly the only thing that saved her life.

The minute Alejandra had come to in the hospital, she’d burst into tears, asking if Rosalee was all right. She was a good woman and while she was still on the mend, the doctors expected her to make a full recovery. We’d gone to visit her in the hospital, and for as many times as she’d admonished me for lying to Rosalee, I gave her hand a squeeze when she told my girl that she’d taken a tumble down the stairs. We all got a good laugh when Rosalee told her she should have held on to the rail.

There wasn’t much I could do to make up for what my brother had done to Alejandra. So I did the only thing I could think of—I fired her. Well, it was more like a retirement with full medical and a pension plan. It included a car and a house of her choosing with all utilities paid for the rest of her life. She took the pink slip in stride and negotiated that she still got to pick Rosalee up after school and got first refusal to keep her on nights and weekends when I was working or had plans. So, basically, we were back at square one, only her house was no longer in my backyard.

This was probably a good thing because I was never going back to that house.

Willow and I had both put our houses on the market, and we were staying at the beach house in the Outer Banks for a few weeks until we could find a place we could buy together. And, yes, it was going to be Willow’s name on the deed when it finally happened.

With an absolute clusterfuck of information flying through the Leary Police Department and national news banging down their doors, it had taken Doug and Beth less than one conversation to draw up paperwork to have Willow’s death certificate declared invalid. They had also ensured that any possible fraud charges against her would not be pursued on the grounds that she had been fearful of her life after Trent Hunt, a serial killer, had murdered her sister. Willow had been adamant about no more lies, but that was our chance—the out we desperately needed to be free forever. I’d all but gotten on my hands and knees, begging her to agree. Standing in front of a judge with Beast Mode Beth at her side, she’d finally let Hadley rest in peace and perjured herself right back into being Willow Banks.

I’d never been prouder of breaking the law in my life as I was when I walked out of that courthouse hand in hand with the woman of my dreams.

“Daddy, look!” Rosalee called, holding up two fingers.

Willow pushed her sunglasses up and squinted. “What is that?”

It was nothing. Or at least that’s what it appeared to be.

I tilted my head to the side as if it might make it easier to see. “Uhhh… Dad experience tells me it’s the the tiniest speck of a broken shell.” I looked at her and grinned. “Or possibly a booger.”

“Ewww,” she groaned. But she’d been getting a lot of parenting practice as well recently. So she gave her a thumbs-up and called back, “Oh my gosh, that’s so pretty!”

I’d died every single second that Trent had been holding Rosalee with that gun in his hand. It had been burned on the backs of my eyelids and carved into my subconscious. I’d woken up almost every night since it’d happened in a cold sweat, the sound of gunfire and her cries reverberating in my head. Willow was always there, whispering reminders that it wasn’t real and we were all okay. I didn’t know what I would have done without her that day. She’d saved my life when she was just a kid, but that day, as she took off out of the house with Rosalee, she saved me all over again.

I’d lived through a lot. But if anything had happened to Rosalee, I would have been stuck in hell forever.

We were all struggling in our own ways. Willow had jumped into caretaker mode, baking and cleaning as if having sparkling countertops could cure everything. And Rosalee, my poor sweet Rosalee—she was also waging war with nightmares. And the questions. Oh my God, all the questions. I didn’t know what to say when she asked why Uncle Trent had become a bad guy. Above and beyond wanting to shield her from the harsh reality, I had no explanation for why Trent had done what he’d done, either.

But not having an answer or sugarcoating it in the name of protecting her weren’t going to cut it after what she had been through.

We all started therapy within a few days. Individual sessions. Couples sessions. Family sessions. Any session I could get us into. Malcom had ruined her mother’s life. I was not going to allow Trent to do the same to my daughter. She was adjusting and coping as best as a four-year-old could. I’d noticed that she was a lot clingier and more cautious than she had once been, but that was okay. I was there for her. And so was Willow. If she wanted to sit in our laps or sleep in the bed with us, that was A-okay because we needed her just as much as she needed us.

I’d asked Willow to marry me as we were driving to the beach.

I had no ring. No plan. No grand proposal. No getting down on one knee.

All I had was her smile lighting one of the darkest hours of my life and the overwhelming need to keep her forever. Life was short and unpredictable. Sometimes, the seconds were all you had. And, dammit, I was going to make the most of them.