LOGINThe jury deliberated for four hours.Four hours to decide the fate of a man who'd terrorized multiple families. Who'd orchestrated kidnappings, attempted murder, and the shooting of a woman protecting her child.Four hours that felt like four years.I sat in the courtroom gallery, Calloway beside me. Victoria had stayed home with Rosie—we'd agreed that bringing a toddler to a sentencing hearing was inappropriate, no matter how central she was to the case.Marcus and Sienna sat in the row behind us. Detective Rodriguez was there. Even some of Gregory's former business associates had shown up, probably to witness his fall from grace.The bailiff entered. "All rise."We stood as Judge Morrison took her seat."Please be seated." She looked at the jury box. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"The jury foreman stood. Middle-aged man, teacher according to the jury selection notes. He held a piece of paper in slightly shaking hands."We have, Your Honor."
The courthouse was packed.Media crews lined the steps outside, cameras ready, reporters shouting questions at anyone who entered. Inside, the gallery was filled to capacity—journalists, curious onlookers, business associates, and victims. All waiting to see Gregory Winters face justice.I sat in the front row, Calloway beside me. His hand found mine, squeezed once. Reassurance. Support."You don't have to be here," he said quietly. "If this is too much—""I need to be here." My voice was firm despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. "He tried to kill me. Tried to kill Rosie. I need to see this through."Across the aisle, I spotted Marcus in his wheelchair. Sienna stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder. They'd both been subpoenaed as witnesses. Both had stories to tell about Gregory's cruelty.Marcus caught my eye. Nodded once. A silent acknowledgment of shared trauma.The bailiff stood. "All rise. The Honorable Judge Patricia Morrison presidi
We sat in silence for a long moment.Rosie slept peacefully in my lap, unaware that her entire existence was the result of impossible circumstances. Calloway remained kneeling in front of me, his hand still holding mine."We both experienced it," I said finally. "The time anomaly. Whatever it was.""Yes.""But differently." I looked at him. "I lived through it. Actually died and woke up three days earlier. Got a second chance to change everything.""And I dreamed it." His thumb traced circles on my hand. "Saw your death play out night after night until I couldn't ignore it anymore.""Two different experiences of the same event.""Or two sides of the same coin." He stood, moved to sit beside me on the couch. Careful not to disturb Rosie. "You were given the chance to live it again. I was given the knowledge to prevent it."The weight of that settled over us."Why?" I asked. "Why us? Why this?""I don't know. Maybe there's no reason. Maybe
Calloway went very still.His gray eyes held mine—searching, calculating, deciding something.Then he stood. Moved to the window. Stood there for a long moment with his back to me, shoulders tense."Calloway?" I adjusted Rosie in my lap. "Did you hear what I said? About the baby? About you knowing?""I heard." His voice was quiet. Too quiet."Then—""The day I showed up at your door." He turned to face me. "You asked me once why that day. Why that specific moment. Why I came when I did."My heart hammered. "You said it was about Damien's debt. About the money he owed you.""That was part of it. But not all of it." He moved closer. Slowly. Like he was approaching something fragile. "Elena, I need to tell you something. And I need you to not interrupt until I'm finished. Can you do that?"I nodded, unable to speak.He sat across from me. Hands clasped. Eyes intense."Three months before I showed up at your house, I started having dreams
"I want to try regression therapy."Dr. Reeves looked up from her notes. We were in her office at the hospital—I'd insisted on continuing sessions even after being discharged. The penthouse felt too big. Too empty. Too full of memories I couldn't access."Regression therapy," she repeated carefully. "Elena, that's not typically recommended for trauma patients. It can be destabilizing—""I need to understand these dreams. These memories." I leaned forward. "You said my brain might be creating false narratives. But what if it's not? What if there are real memories buried somewhere and I just need help accessing them?""Regression therapy won't help you distinguish between real and false memories. In fact, it might make things worse. The line between imagination and reality becomes even more blurred.""I don't care. I need to try something." My hands clenched in my lap. "Every night I dream about dying. About falling. About timelines that shouldn't exist. And I
I was falling.The stairs stretched beneath me—endless, spiraling down into darkness. Each step hit harder than the last, pain exploding through my body with every impact.I tried to scream but no sound came out.Above me, standing at the top of the stairs, Damien watched. His face was cold. Empty. Like I was nothing.Beside him, Sienna smiled."You should have just left," she said. Her voice echoed, distorted. "None of this had to happen.""Please—" I managed to gasp. "The baby—""What baby?" Damien's laugh was cruel. "You really think I'd let you keep it?"His hand came down. Pushed.And I was falling again.Down, down, down.The stairs became walls. The walls became sky. Everything spinning, tumbling, breaking—Blood. So much blood.Pooling beneath me. Warm. Sticky. Spreading across white marble floors that shouldn't be there.I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except watch the blood and know—know w
"Absolutely not," Calloway said. "Tell security to escort her off the property." "She's causing a scene, sir," the maid said nervously. "The neighbors are watching. She's threatening to call the press." Victoria stood abruptly. "Let her in." "Mother—" "Let her in, Calloway. Better to deal
I told myself I wouldn’t think about the email. I told myself it was just one line, stripped of context, pulled from a past I didn’t fully understand yet. That there were a hundred explanations that didn’t involve deliberate cruelty. I told myself a lot of things. Morning sunlight spilled throu
The drive to the Hamptons took two hours. Two hours of tense silence in the back of Calloway's Mercedes, with his driver navigating weekend traffic while I stared out the window and tried not to think about the wall of surveillance photos. I'd left that room without another word. What was the
The pain came in waves. Not sharp enough to scream—but deep enough to steal my breath, curling low in my belly like something tightening from the inside out. By the time Calloway helped me into the car, my fingers were shaking so badly I couldn’t even fasten my seatbelt. “Slow breaths,” he said,







