Page 55 of Somewhere Without You

Fifty Two

Later

“That’s the last box,” Dani said, setting it on the floor before flopping onto the couch.

“It’s the only box,”I replied, raising a brow.

She smiled, stroking Henry’s fur as he settled into her lap.“Perks of traveling light.”

Outside, Winston barked from somewhere off in the field, sending off a symphony of other barks as several more dogs joined in.

The Harrison County Animal Shelter lost its funding, but thankfully, none of the animals had to be euthanized. Thanks to Katherine and Grant’s generous donation, we were able to rebuild the barn, allowing Dani and I to open up our own shelter, here at the Magnolia House.

We named it: The Hart Meadows Rescue Garden .

Between referrals from local and out-of-state shelters, and help from privately funded donors, our numbers were manageable—usually fewer than twenty dogs and just a couple of cats at any given time.

As for Jackson, I hadn’t seen or heard from him since that night in the garden. Turns out, the merger he’d been chasing with Max wasn’t something he wanted—it was something he desperately needed.

Bishop Enterprises was broke. So was Jackson. And when the deal collapsed, so did his company. He filed for bankruptcy, and shortly after, he lost everything—the house, the cars, and whatever else he wrapped his ego in.

His downfall opened the floodgates, as several women he dated before me finally came forward with allegations of abuse—claims too heavy for him to outrun.

With the law closing in, and a mounting stack of lawsuits tied to his shady dealings through Bishop Enterprises, Jackson did what cowards do best. He fled the country.

No one has seen him since.

Rita found a new family to work for—a couple named Lydia and Benjamin Edwards. They worked in television, owning and running several network stations along the California coast. As for Mia, she followed her aunt, taking on the role of caretaker for the couple’s young children.

I told them they were always welcome to visit, though I wasn’t sure if they ever would. Still, I meant it. Some people carve out a place in your life whether they stay or not.

Madeline McBride’s trial was scheduled for October. The night of the shooting, she was taken into custody without incident. She entered a not guilty plea, citing temporary insanity, but the prosecution wasn’t buying it and was determined to secure a first-degree murder charge.

I went to visit her in jail, at the resistance of both Dani and my sister.

They thought I was crazy, and maybe I was, but I needed to see it through—not for myself, but for Logan.

She refused my visits, and after several more failed attempts, I finally gave up.

I didn’t know what I had expected. At the time I had wanted—no, needed answers.

Still, something shifted in me after that.

I let go of the anger I’d been carrying—not because she deserved forgiveness, but because I did.

Forgiving her meant I could breathe again.

And in doing so, I realized I could forgive Jackson, too—not for his sake, but for mine.

Life was too short to keep bleeding from wounds I refused to let heal.

The grief didn’t come in waves like people said it would. It sat with me, quiet and constant, like a second shadow. I carried it through the routines of my day, tucked beneath smiles and polite conversation, pretending I was healing—until the wounds left behind finally started to scab over.

I started spending long afternoons in the garden. It gave me something to do with my hands, something to care for. Danielle helped at first, but eventually, I preferred doing it alone. It felt more honest that way, more like a conversation between me and the silence left behind.

Another chorus of barks erupted as the rumble of an engine echoed down the drive. A small sedan I didn’t recognize pulled up beside my new white Impala, another gift from Grant and Katherine.

Danielle turned to look, and Henry hopped out of her lap.

“You expecting someone?”I asked, heading for the door.

“Not that I know of,”Danielle replied, following close behind.

Both the driver’s side and passenger doors swung open, and out stepped Georgia and Alabama Baker.

I paused, my hand on the doorknob, as they stepped into the sun, their presence as unexpected as it was unsettling.

“Well, this is a surprise,”I said, trying to mask my confusion.“What brings you two here?”

“We brought you a gift,”Alabama said, holding out a large fruit basket.“From the church.”

Danielle shot me a cautious look.“I’m gonna go check on the dogs,”she said, sidestepping the twins as they made their way over to us.

“Actually,”Georgia drawled, a mischievous glint in her eye.“The fruit basket is just a formality. Daddy promised Allie here a dog, and she was very eager to see what your. . .”She let her eyes sweep over the barn,“facility has to offer.”

Alabama, her steps light and eager, glanced at Danielle.“Are they friendly?”

“Most of them,”Danielle smiled.“They’re more bark than bite.”

As the three of them headed over to the barn, Georgia paused, glancing over her shoulder.“I’m glad to see you’re doing okay,”she said, a hint of softness in her voice.“Alabama and I. . . we’ve been praying for you.”

I smiled, lifting the fruit basket slightly.“Thanks, Georgia. That means a lot.”

Back inside, I set the basket down on the table. Danielle’s box of stuff was still sitting in the middle of the living room. I picked it up and carried it upstairs to mine and Katherine’s old room.

I had cleared out most of my things, but a few random items were still tucked away in the closet.

I set the box down on the floor and wandered over to it.

The door creaked open with the familiar stick it always had.

I reached up and began sorting through the clutter.

There wasn’t much, just old toys from when Katherine and I were kids and a cracked snow globe from a thrift store we used to frequent.

Then came a few yellowing photos, edges curled, of me and Katherine when we first arrived at Gran’s—wide-eyed and awkward, trying to look braver than we really were.

But behind all of that, tucked in the very back, beneath a worn flannel blanket and a shoebox full of costume jewelry. . . was an old hatbox.

A lump formed in my throat.

I hadn’t seen it in years—but there it was, right where I’d hidden it, with Logan’s letters still inside. The ones I never read.

I sat back on my heels, heart thudding. Dust coated the lid, and for a moment, I just stared at it—frozen between dread and curiosity. Then, without really thinking, I scooped everything up, crossed the hallway, and set everything next to the bed.

Sitting on the edge, I rested the box in my lap. My fingers hesitated on the lid, trembling slightly as I opened it.

The letters were exactly as I remembered—neatly folded, each one with my name written across the front in Logan’s familiar handwriting. I picked one at random and unfolded it slowly, as if giving it too much air might make it disappear.

The first few lines hit like a punch to the gut.

He wrote about missing me, about the ache of silence between us, about the things he hadn’t known how to say before he left.

His words were raw and tender, a mixture of regret and love.

I felt like I was holding pieces of him that had beenfrozen in time, and now they were thawing, melting right into my hands.

Tears blurred the ink as I read.

Some letters were short, just a few lines. Others went on for pages. He wrote about the future he imagined for us. About forgiveness. About how he’d always felt like he was running out of time but never knew how to stop long enough to say what mattered.

By the seventh letter, I was curled on my side, the box beside me, the letters scattered across the bed like fallen leaves. Each one cracked something open in me that I didn’t even realize was still locked away.

I hadn’t expected to feel peace. But somewhere between the pain and the words he left behind, I did.

When I finished, I gathered the letters and placed them gently back inside, arranging everything just as it had been. Easing off the bed, I lowered myself to the floor, coughing as a swirl of dust bunnies scattered from underneath.

I carefully slid the hatbox to the far corner under the bed, nestling it beside the old satchel I’d tucked away weeks earlier.

From downstairs, I heard Danielle call my name.

I was about to push myself up when something caught my eye—a thin strip of paper peeking out from the folds of the satchel. Confused, I reached for it, my fingers tingling as they brushed the familiar leather strap.

Winston had been hiding under here the night Madeline broke in. He must’ve knocked something loose. Maybe one of the letters had slipped free.

Slowly, I pulled the satchel forward, careful not to disturb anything else inside. The envelope slipped further out, and my breath caught.

It wasn’t an old letter.

At first, I thought it must be a mistake. Maybe it had been wedged deep in the lining all along, only now working its way free. But even as I opened it, some part of me knew better.

My pulse quickened, and my hands shook violently as I fought to steady myself. But the moment my eyes met the spidery script, so unmistakably his, I felt the world tilt beneath me.

My Dearest Emily. . .