Chapter 10

One year later.

We live in a small town by the ocean. The air smells like salt. Our house is blue with a white porch, and the backyard has a swing set that Daniel built himself.

May is five now. She's in kindergarten. She has friends and a favorite teacher and a goldfish named Bubbles. She hasn't had a nightmare in eight months.

She still has the scar on her arm. She calls it her "brave mark."

"Everybody gets a brave mark," she told me last week. "Mine just looks like teeth."

Maria and Leo live ten minutes away. Maria opened her own bakery — we helped her with the money from the civil settlement. Leo is eight and thriving. He and May are still inseparable. He protects her on the playground. She bosses him around. It's perfect.

Linda moved here too. She bought a little cottage by the water. She started a foundation in Emily's name — it helps abused children get therapy and legal support. She testified before the state legislature last month. They named a bill after Emily.

Daniel loves his new job. He's home by six every night. He coaches May's soccer team. He's present. He's happy. We're happy.

Tonight is May's fifth birthday.

The backyard is full of people. Maria and Leo. Linda. My sister. Daniel's parents. May's little friends from school. There's a cake with pink frosting and five candles.

May stands in front of the cake, surrounded by everyone she loves. She closes her eyes. She thinks hard. Then she blows out all five candles in one breath.

Everybody cheers.

She looks at me. She runs over and wraps her arms around my legs.

"Mommy," she says, looking up. "I wished that every kid gets a safe home. Like me."

I pick her up. I hold her tight. I feel Daniel's arm come around both of us.

"You made that happen, baby," I whisper. "You were so brave."

She shakes her head. "No, Mommy. You made it happen. You and Daddy. You kept me safe."

I look over her shoulder at the people in our yard. At Maria, laughing as Leo chases a friend with a handful of cake. At Linda, watching the children with tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. At Daniel, whose eyes are wet, whose arms are strong around us.

I think about that night at the mansion. The lights. The laughter. The moment my daughter pointed at a beautiful woman in a red dress and said four words that changed everything.

That woman is in prison now. Her husband is beside her. The children they hurt are healing. The silence is broken.

I hold May closer. I kiss her hair. I feel the sun on my face and the ocean breeze and the sound of people I love laughing in my backyard.

For the first time in my life, I feel completely safe.

Completely loved.

Completely at peace.

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"Happy birthday, my brave girl," I say.

And somewhere, I like to think Emily is smiling too.