Chapter 6 - The Road HomeBy Friday afternoon, the leaves had almost all fallen, leaving the maple trees along Route 9 stark and black against a pale autumn sky.
I didn't go back to the apartment above the dry cleaner.
With the financial relief fund from the hospital, the back-pay adjustment, and a generous state relocation grant for victims of domestic conspiracy, I had broken my lease and bought a small, sturdy ranch-style house three towns over, near the edge of the state park.
It had a red front door. A real yard with a big oak tree in the center. And windows that actually let the afternoon sun flood into the kitchen.
I was standing at the island counter chopping apples for the kids’ snack when the front doorbell rang.
My heart did a quick, instinctive double-tap against my ribs—the old reflex of someone waiting for the other shoe to drop. But when I looked through the peephole, there was no uniform, no badge, no family member with cold eyes and hidden motives.
It was Trooper Vance, holding a large cardboard box marked DEPARTMENT PROPERTY.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open. The cool November air rushed in, smelling of pine needles and woodsmoke.
“Hey,” Vance said, offering a small, tired smile. He shifted the box in his arms.
“Hey,” I replied, stepping back to let him in. “What’s all this?”
He carried the box into the kitchen and set it down neatly on the counter next to the cutting board. “We cleared out the evidence locker regarding your personal effects from your parents’ house. Most of it is old paperwork, but there was one thing the state attorney general said belonged back with you.”
He reached into the box and pulled out a framed black-and-white photograph.
It was a picture of Ben and me, taken on our wedding day six years ago, standing outside a little chapel in Vermont with the sun breaking through the clouds. My hair was blowing across my face. Ben was laughing so hard his eyes were nearly closed, one arm wrapped securely around my waist.
I hadn't seen that photo in three years. My mother had taken it after the funeral, claiming she wanted to “store it safely” so I wouldn't have to look at it every day while I grieved.
I traced the glass with my thumb, feeling the cool, smooth surface. A thick knot in my chest that I hadn't even realized was still there finally dissolved.
“Thank you, Vance,” I whispered.
“You’re welcome, Rachel,” he said softly. He lingered by the kitchen island for a moment, hands resting in his pockets, looking around the bright, sunlit room where Lily was currently building a Lego castle on the rug while Ethan banged a wooden spoon against a plastic bowl. “How are they doing?”
“Better every day,” I said. “Lily started a new kindergarten class down the road. She told her teacher yesterday that clouds look like friendly dragons. She’s getting her imagination back.”
Vance smiled—a real, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Good. That’s how you know they’re healing.”
He turned toward the front door, pausing on the threshold before pulling his coat collar up against the wind.
“If you ever need anything,” he added, looking back over his shoulder, “my shift doesn't end until midnight. And I don't live far from here.”
“I know,” I said. “Thank you, Vance.”
He gave a small nod and stepped out onto the porch, closing the red door gently behind him.
I stood in the center of the kitchen for a long moment, listening to the soft, chaotic symphony of my children playing on the floor—the click of plastic bricks, the happy babble of a nine-month-old who had never known a world where he wasn't safe, and the steady, unbreakable rhythm of my own heart beating inside my chest.
May you like
I walked over, picked up the framed photograph of Ben, and set it right in the center of the mantelpiece above the fireplace, where the afternoon light caught it and made it shine.
Then I turned back to the kitchen, reached for the apple, and finished cutting it into pieces.
