Page 48

Levana - 7 Years Later

“Elliot!” I call out. “Can you grab me a trocar?”

“You want the long or short?”

“Long,” I mutter, adjusting the pressure slightly as black blood gurgles out in thick clots, filling the metal basin below.

“Here,” he says, appearing beside me with the tool.

The sharp tip gleams under the fluorescents as I grab it, and a hundred tiny spiders skitter through my nerves, but I shake them off.

“Lev,” he says gently, “why are you in here?”

“Because there’s work to do.”

He leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s two-thirty.”

I freeze. “Shit. Really?”

“Yep. Do you want me to get the kids? I can bring them here if you want to finish up?”

“No, no. I’ve got it. I just need to finish up here and then I’ve got some shipment stuff to go over in the office—”

“Lev.” Elliot gives me a look. “Stop overworking yourself. I’ve got it. I’ll do it.”

I hesitate for a split second, eyes darting back toward the body on the table, but then I nod. “Okay. Okay.”

Once my PPE’s off, I toss it all into the biohazard bin and take a deep breath.

He steps forward and kisses my cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I say, resting a hand on his arm. “Give Elise and Rosie my love, okay?”

He shoots me a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck.”

I wash up, scrubbing beneath my nails until the scent of formaldehyde fades to something faint and clinical. Then I grab my coat and slip it on, checking my pockets for my keys as I step into the lobby. I glance around the empty space out of habit. Sunlight slants through the blinds, dust dances in the air.

“See you later, Gordon!” I call out.

No one answers, of course, but I still do it out of habit.

Gordon’s been dead for three years.

He gave us this place. Left it to Elliot and me like we were his own kids. We knew he never had any of his own, but it still came as a huge shock to us.

I pause by the door, hand on the frame, and take a breath.

Everything’s changed so much.

Gordon’s gone.

I own a damn funeral home.

Elliot’s been married to his beautiful wife, Elise for four years. And they have a perfect daughter, Rosie, who looks just like him with her round cheeks, clever eyes and dark curls.

And I’m a mom.

Twenty minutes later, I’m standing outside the school gates, hands stuffed in my coat pockets, the chill of autumn threading through the seams.

Copper and gold leaves swirl across the pavement, spinning in spirals in front of the old red-brick building. Its windows are fogged with kid breath and the heat from a system that probably hasn’t worked right in years.

The final bell rings, and chaos ensues.

Dozens of kids burst out into the cold, shouting and laughing like a dam’s been broken.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

I don’t even have time to blink before Hattie barrels into view, blonde curls flying, arms outstretched like a rocket aimed straight for my ribs. She’s fast. Too fast. Her cheeks are flushed, her sweater’s riding up, and her backpack is slung so crooked it’s basically a cape.

“I missed you so much,” she says as she slams into my side, tilting her head back to beam up at me, hazel eyes sparkling behind thick glasses.

I don’t even get a word in before Milo appears behind her, dark auburn hair sticking to his forehead, dragging his scuffed backpack on the ground like it’s twice as heavy as it should be. He always walks like he’s got nowhere urgent to be, but wouldn’t mind getting there eventually.

He sidles up next to me and wraps his arms around my waist, squinting up at me with an expectant smile and green eyes as his tiny knuckle pushes his own glasses up his nose.

I pull both of them in tight, arms full of warmth, static, and slightly sticky fingers. “Come on, time to go see Daddy!”

“Yay!!!” Hattie practically lifts off the ground, spinning in a circle before grabbing Milo’s hand and swinging it like she’s trying to shake candy out of him. He stumbles, laughing, his big gap-toothed grin stretched wide as he tries to keep up with her.

When we reach the car, I buckle Hattie in first, smoothing her hair behind her ear. The light catches on her little cheeks and nose, and for a second, she looks so much like my mom it aches. Most days, she’s all Patrick. But sometimes, just sometimes, I see Mom in her too.

Mom met the twins. She loved them with everything she had left in those last few years of her life. Even through the fog, there were moments where she held them like they were her whole world and sang to them in half-forgotten lullabies.

I have a lot of regrets when it comes to her. The reminders of Dad and Violet in her illness made the pain too raw, made it too hard to visit her for so long.

But becoming a mom again flipped something inside me that made me realise how unfair I’d been. I couldn’t make up for all the lost time. But I like to think I made up for some of it at the end.

I swallow it down and round the car to buckle Milo in next. Half an hour into the drive, he’s out cold in the backseat. Head slumped to the side, catching flies. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose, and one of his shoes is missing from his foot.

He’s a quiet kid. The kind of kid who’d rather sit with a book than run wild. He’s all me in the way he carries himself—and all Violet in the way he looks when he’s asleep. There’s something about the way his lashes fan across his cheeks, something in the shape of his mouth when he’s resting. It’s her. It’s both of us.

Fallen leaves tumble across the tarmac like confetti as the road curves.

Patrick’s facility is only a ninety minute drive away.

He’s been there for seven years.

Seven of the fifteen he was sentenced to on concurrent terms.

Unfit to stand trial. Diagnosed within three weeks of being arrested.

PTSD with secondary psychosis.

The charges still stuck.

Abuse of a corpse—twice.

Unlawful exhumation—twice.

All tied to the same four names: Mara. Alexander. Mallory. Dolores.

I managed to very quietly return Alexander’s fingers to him. It felt so horribly wrong to have ever taken them. But at the time, there was no way out, and it felt like the only choice I had.

For two years, neither family knew they’d been visiting empty graves—grieving at stones with no one beneath them. So after the trial, they were all cremated, and returned to their families in silent handovers filled with nothing but love and respect.

Patrick’s mom cut him off completely.

Mara’s parents didn’t.

Thank god, they forgave him.

They’ve even met the kids. It might be strange, but I don’t mind. They aren’t blood, but they’re connected. Tied to a legacy none of us asked for.

The kids don’t know about their siblings on Patrick’s side.

Alexander. Mally. Dolly.

They don’t know about Violet either.

It’ll be a lot for them to hear about, and they’re going to stay in their little bubbles for as long as I can keep them there.

So for now, Mara’s parents are just two soft spoken people who show up every few months with sweet treats and new toys, telling them funny stories about when their Daddy was younger.

I watch as one single, golden leaf spirals past the windshield, slow and aimless, like it doesn’t know where it’s supposed to land.

The car’s quiet. Just the low hum of the engine, Hattie’s soft singing from the back seat, and Milo’s tiny snores drifting through the air.

Patrick’s only other charge was one count of false imprisonment.

I never told anyone about how the pregnancy came about. I had to admit I was being held against my will, or they’d have seen me as an accomplice, but the rest? The rest was mine. I didn’t want the twins growing up with that kind of origin story circling their heads. They don’t need to know that even though they’re light and love, they were born from something dark.

I managed to keep that one s quirrelled away.

But not all secrets stay quiet for long—not when the world’s watching.

And the world was watching.

So the press came.

Circling both our stories like vultures for the first year after his arrest until they got bored and moved on.

They parked outside my house. Tried to sneak into work. Followed me to Mom’s residential home. Dredged up everything they could. Spun headlines like Daddy’s Gone Mad: The Man Who Couldn’t Say Goodbye and Corpse Queen: Pregnant Embalmer Helped Lover Hide the Dead?

They wanted interviews with me.

Photos of the twins.

A confession.

I couldn’t breathe without wondering if a camera lens was pointed at my face.

I couldn’t grieve, couldn’t heal, couldn’t even fucking go to the store without someone whispering.

And that was just what came from the outside.

Inside, it was worse.

The guilt of knowing I encouraged him.

The shame of still loving him.

Of dreaming of blood even though I’d been the one to draw it.

Even though I knew exactly where to stab without killing him.

Even though I’d done it to survive.

The fear that the twins would become another story like Violet’s.

It all rolled together like a storm in my chest, squeezing tighter every day.

I struggled.

Badly.

Elliot moved in with me for a while. He helped with feeds, laundry, midnight colic. Helped with me, even when I didn’t know I needed it.

It wasn’t until he found me curled up in the shower at 3a.m. one night, rocking under scalding water, that we both finally admitted what neither of us had wanted to say out loud—it had piled too high, and something was really, seriously wrong.

PTSD. Postnatal Depression. Severe.

It struck like a bitch. Like everything I’d shoved down finally clawed its way back up and severed me at the spine.

But I’m much better now.

Not perfect. But better.

And I wouldn’t have been able to do a shred of it without my best friend.

I still don’t know how I got so lucky—that Elliot forgave me for not believing him and cutting him off.

Patrick sent him letters apologising. Elliot read them, but he says he’ll never forgive him for what he put me through, which is absolutely fair enough. Despite that, his hatred for Patrick hasn’t stopped him from loving those kids like they’re his own. He’s like their second dad. Or emergency backup dad. Or their fiercely sarcastic, overinvolved uncle who just happens to know how to braid hair and deconstruct Lego cars with butter knives.

And Patrick?

He’s doing amazing.

He’s medicated.

Stable.

In therapy three times a week. He paints, he does thousand-piece puzzles, he reads constantly, he’s built a little garden in the courtyard.

He’s a good man.

And he’s a great dad.

It took years of medications, therapies, evaluations and making sure the psychosis was truly under control before they let him meet the twins.

Just after their second birthday, I pulled up to the facility a complete nervous wreck, shaking from head to toe, loaded them into their stroller and marched in there, absolutely terrified of what I was about to face.

But it was still Patrick.

Still soft, loving, caring Patrick.

He cried for over an hour. Held onto them like they were made of glass, whispered their names over and over, said he didn’t deserve them.

The kids didn’t care. Milo just tucked his tiny hand in Patrick’s shirt and Hattie kissed his cheek and called him Daddy without hesitation.

Now, after years of supervised visits, they get three unsupervised hours in the family lounge once a fortnight, and he gets to read them bedtime stories over the phone twice a week.

My heart gives a little thump as the facility comes into view. The sky’s shifting into peachy streaks that stretch across the horizon, soft against the iron gates and long drive ahead to the sandstone building that’s half hidden by sycamores and tangled ivy.

Hattie squeals so damn loud my eardrums nearly burst and Milo bolts upright in the backseat, hair stuck to his forehead, mouth slack and glossy from sleep.

“Why are you yelling?” he grumbles, dragging his sleeve across his face.

“We’re here!” Hattie beams, practically vibrating in her car seat. “We’re gonna see Daddy!”

Milo groans, flops dramatically against the window, and mumbles something about his ears still being asleep.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” I say softly, unbuckling my belt. “He’s waiting.”

The lobby’s bright and familiar—neutral tones, comfy chairs, a fake ficus in the corner that’s been leaning sideways for as long as I can remember.

“Hey, Levana,” Carla calls from the front desk, grinning wide as she stands. “There’s our Friday crew.”

“Hi, Miss Carla!” Hattie chirps.

Milo just waves, still rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

I hand over my ID and fill out the forms.

Carla scans everything, stamps the corner, and gives me a sweet smile like always. “All set, hon. You’re good to go.”

Past the desk, through the checkpoint. Keys and phone in the tray. Arms out.

It’s standard routine now, but it never fails to make my heart kick up a little each and every time.

Then we’re through a set of glass doors and into the Family Visitation Lounge—the one reserved for long term, low risk patients.

The walls are painted sky blue, and the air smells like disinfectant and vending machine coffee. The furniture’s all curved corners and muted greens, and a bookshelf leans against the far wall, full of dog-eared paperbacks and worn out kid’s books.

And there he is.

Tucked into his usual spot in the far corner, sitting on the floor like always, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing the tan slacks and the soft olive-green shirt I brought him a few months ago, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His same wire glasses sit perched on his nose. There’s a paperback open in his lap, one hand curled around the spine, the other tracing circles absent-mindedly on his knee.

The sight makes my palms sweat.

The second the door clicks shut behind us, he looks up and a smile fills his face.

“Daddy!” Hattie shrieks, launching herself across the room.

Milo’s only a split second behind her, arms flung wide.

Patrick laughs and drops the book just in time to catch both of them, one in each arm. They hit his chest hard, knocking him backward, and he goes willingly, letting them tangle themselves around him like ivy.

“Jesus,” he gasps, arms wrapping tight around their little bodies. “You didn’t even let me breathe.”

“You weren’t supposed to breathe,” Hattie says, giggling into his shoulder. “You were supposed to miss us.”

“I did,” he murmurs. “I do. Every single second.”

I lower myself down onto one of the couches, and just watch.

He presses kisses into their hair, like he’s trying to breathe them in, like just touching them can refill everything he’s been missing.

“Hattie,” he says, pulling her back slightly to look at her. “You’ve gotten taller. I swear, if you grow another inch, I’m gonna need a ladder just to kiss your forehead.”

She giggles, glasses slipping down her nose. “No I haven’t!”

“You have,” he says, grinning. “And that hair—just like mine. I knew you were gonna be trouble the second I saw it.”

She grins wide, smug and proud. “ You’re trouble.”

Milo leans his weight fully into Patrick’s side, his hair sticking up from his nap. Patrick turns his attention to him, eyes sparkling.

“And you,” he says, pretending to look scandalised. “You’ve changed your whole face. You look exactly like your mommy now.”

Milo frowns. “No I do not.”

“You do!” Patrick pokes at his side, and Milo squirms away with a giggle. “Same eyes. Same little line between your brows when you’re pretending not to smile. I’m onto you, kid.”

“You’re silly,” Milo grumbles, but he’s grinning now.

Patrick holds them both close, his arms curled around them like he’s afraid they’ll disappear if he lets go.

Then he lifts his head, and his eyes meet mine.

“Hey,” he says, that same soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” I reply.

He rises to his feet with a slight groan and crosses the room. His knees get a little sore now, his messy blonde hair’s a little more silver at the temples, and his face is a little leaner.

But it’s still him. All of him.

He settles into the seat beside me and we just watch our kids play.

“I thought you quit,” Patrick says after a while, leaning toward me a little.

“What?”

He glances sideways at me. “Smoking.”

“How do you—”

He laughs gently. “I can smell it, Levana.”

I sniff my shirt, wrinkling my nose. “Shit.”

He grins, eyes still on the kids. “Hey, no judgement from me.”

We sit like that for a few minutes as Hattie tries to balance a toy teacup on Milo’s head while he deadpans about gravitational pull and how ‘ this is scientifically inaccurate.’

Patrick chuckles under his breath. “So… How did the date go?”

I groan immediately. “Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Nope,” I say again, dragging the word out and popping the P. “Within the first twenty minutes he told me I was, quot e, ‘pretty hot for a mom ,’ and then straight up asked me if I leak breast milk when I come.”

Patrick chokes on his laugh, eyes going wide. “He did not.”

“Oh, he did,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “I hadn’t even finished my drink. And then he had the nerve to act shocked when I left.”

He’s full on laughing now, trying to stifle it behind his hand so the kids don’t look over. “Levana…”

“Don’t.” I point at him, but I’m smiling too.

He grins, hazel eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Well, do you?”

“Jesus Christ, Patrick,” I groan.

“What?” he says, trying—and failing—to sound innocent. “The kids can’t hear.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve been locked in a facility for seven years, Levana. Let me have this.”

“Absolutely not,” I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re deranged.”

He taps his temple. “Medicated and monitored, actually.”

There’s a soft brush against my skin and a hitched breath before he gathers my hand into his.

He looks down and watches as his thumb drifts over my knuckles, then down to the gold and sapphire band still circling my finger.

I’ve never been able to take it off.

It may have been given to me in a time full of deceit and a whole lot of bullshit—but it still means something.

Not in the way it was supposed to. Not as some promise of forever.

But as a reminder of what I survived, and what we all now have.

He pulls my head onto his shoulder ever so softly.

“You ready for the next one?” He asks.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“The talk,” he says, nodding slightly. “You’ve got another on Tuesday, right?”

My brow furrows. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do, baby.”

I roll my eyes, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “Patrick, stop.”

But I don’t move away. I lean in, just a little, letting the warmth of him settle around me like muscle memory.

It started six months ago—just a small embalming webinar for a local college’s mortuary sciences program. Nothing too fancy, and I figured it’d be a one off. But word spread. Apparently, there aren’t many embalmers willing to speak so openly about infant cases, and it garnered quite a bit of interest.

Now, I do them a couple of times a month. I can’t travel far with the twins, so it’s all over Zoom, done from my cramped office at the funeral home with a bookshelf backdrop and a mug that says ‘Ask Me About Arterial Fluid.’

“I’m so damn proud of you, Levana,” he whispers, voice laced with years of aching and something that still feels a lot like love.

“I’m proud of you too, Patrick,” I say, closing my eyes.

We sit like that for a second, hands clasped, my head on his shoulder, until Hattie starts screeching and we both look up.

She’s got two dolls gripped by the hair, smashing them together like it’s gladiator night.

“Are they fighting to the death?” Patrick asks her.

“Obviously,” she says. “She stole her sister’s dragon egg.”

Milo appears beside her with a toy soldier from the communal bin. “This guy’s neutral. He just wants peace.”

We both sigh and drop to the floor before Patrick scoops up a decapitated wizard, and I grab a doll with a face full of glitter and one shoe missing.

For the rest of our visit, there’s no institution.

No past. No blood, or grief, or ghosts.

Just this.

The soft sound of Milo’s humming.

The dramatic chaos of Hattie’s voice narrating doll carnage.

Patrick’s hand brushing against mine as he gives his wizard a battle cry.

We play. Like a normal family. A mom, a dad, their twins.

I never thought life would’ve ended up like this.

But then I met Patrick Dalton.

And for a while, I thought he was my peace.

He wasn’t.

He was a hurricane dressed in a pressed shirt and soft words.

He came in and threw a wrecking ball at everything I thought I wanted.

But he also gave me something I didn’t know I needed.

A future I’d sworn I’d never touch, and ended up loving more than I thought possible.

Now my peace is on the floor of a psychiatric facility playroom, watching the father of my children—the man who turned my whole world upside down—argue over doll politics with our six-year-old twins.

It’s not perfect. It’s not neat.

But it’s a happy ending in its own right all the same.