Chapter 10
A year later, Ethan screamed again.
This time, it was from the backyard.
For half a second, my body forgot healing.
I dropped the laundry basket and ran.
“Ethan!”
Then I saw him.
Standing beside an easel under the oak tree.
Paint on his cheek.
Aunt Rachel laughing.
Mr. Alvarez clapping.
Detective Holt holding a paper plate of cake.
Ethan pointed at the banner above the fence.
Happy 12th Birthday.
“You scared me,” I said, hand pressed to my chest.
He grinned.
“I said surprise.”
“You screamed surprise.”
“I panicked.”
I laughed so hard I almost cried.
That was new too.
Laughter that didn’t feel like betrayal.
The backyard was full of people who had earned their place.
Aunt Rachel.
Mr. Alvarez.
Detective Holt.
Nora from CPS.
Angela Reed.
Two of Ethan’s friends from art club.
My best friend Maya, who had sat with me through every court day after she found out the truth.
No one from Sarah’s life.
No one who demanded forgiveness as proof of goodness.
No one who called pain drama.
We had built a smaller world.
A safer one.
Ethan opened presents at the picnic table.
New brushes.
A sketchbook.
A museum membership.
A baseball signed by Dad’s favorite player, which Mr. Alvarez somehow found and refused to explain.
Then Aunt Rachel handed him a small wrapped box.
Ethan opened it carefully.
Inside was a key.
He looked confused.
“What’s this?”
Rachel smiled.
“The key to the garage.”
His eyes widened.
“But Olivia has that.”
“I made copies,” I said. “It’s your studio too.”
He looked toward the garage.
The door was painted blue now.
Bright.
Alive.
No lock on the inside.
No secrets behind panels except birthday gifts and old Christmas lights.
Ethan held the key like it weighed more than metal.
“I can go in whenever I want?”
“Whenever you want,” Rachel said. “And leave whenever you want.”
His eyes filled.
He wiped them quickly, embarrassed.
I pretended not to notice.
Later, after cake, Detective Holt pulled me aside.
“Sarah’s appeal was denied.”
I breathed in.
Slowly.
Deeply.
“Good.”
“She won’t be contacting you again. Her mail privileges are restricted after the last attempt.”
I nodded.
Sarah had sent one letter.
I never opened it.
Detective Holt kept it as evidence.
Some doors stay closed because peace deserves locks too.
“Thank you,” I said.
The detective smiled.
“You saved your brother before I ever got there.”
I looked across the yard.
Ethan was showing Angela his painting of Dad and Thomas Reed standing beside two trucks under a yellow sky.
“No,” I said. “Dad saved us first. I just followed the light he left on.”
That evening, after everyone left, Ethan and I sat in the garage.
The workbench light glowed above us.
Not hidden anymore.
Just light.
Aunt Rachel leaned in the doorway with mugs of hot chocolate.
“You two okay?”
Ethan nodded.
I nodded too.
And meant it.
She set the mugs down and looked around.
“I think your dad would like what you did with this place.”
Ethan touched the edge of his easel.
“Do you think he’d be proud?”
Rachel’s eyes softened.
“He already was.”
Ethan looked at me.
“Liv?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever miss before?”
I knew what he meant.
Before Sarah.
Before Dad died.
Before courtrooms and cameras and words like homicide.
“Yes,” I said. “All the time.”
“Me too.”
He leaned against my shoulder.
“But I like now sometimes.”
My throat tightened.
“Me too.”
Outside, the Texas sky turned pink.
Inside, the garage smelled like paint, wood, and chocolate.
Ethan picked up his brush again.
He added two small figures beside Dad in the painting.
One tall girl.
One smaller boy.
Holding hands.
“You made us too skinny,” I said.
He smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
I nudged him.
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Clear.
Unbroken.
Aunt Rachel sat on Dad’s old stool and watched us with tears in her eyes.
Mr. Alvarez knocked on the open garage door, holding leftover cake.
“Anyone need a second dessert?”
Ethan raised his hand.
I raised mine too.
For a moment, everything was ordinary.
Cake.
Paint.
Bad jokes.
Warm light.
A door wide open.
That was the happy ending I had stopped believing in.
Not perfect.
Not untouched.
But safe.
Loved.
Ours.
I looked at Ethan, at the brother I had fought for, at the boy who had survived and still found colors bright enough to paint the sky.
Then I looked at Dad’s workbench.
“Goodnight, Dad,” I whispered.
The light above us hummed softly.
May you like
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a warning.
It felt like home.
