Five minutes before Alice married him, an old woman fell to her knees and begged her to run

Before returning to Bellmont, Alice made one final stop.

She drove to the outskirts of Briar Glen, turning down a long, winding gravel driveway that led to a grand, two-story brick house set against a dark ridge of hills—the Vaughn estate.

The house was empty now. The lawn was overgrown with late-autumn weeds, and a large FOR SALE sign sat near the wooden mailbox, posted by the court-appointed receiver.

Alice parked her car by the front steps and stepped out.

She walked up to the broad front porch, looking at the heavy oak front door where Walter Vaughn had lived out his final, prosperous years, built on stolen land and covered-up crimes.

She sat on the top step of the porch, wrapping her wool coat tightly against the chilly October breeze.

This was where Roger had grown up.

She pictured him as a boy in this house—a quiet, watchful kid who probably heard his father's sharp, demanding voice echoing down these grand hallways. She wondered when Roger had first realized that his father wasn't the heroic figure the town made him out to be. Was it at fifteen, when the timber yard burned down? Was it at twenty-three, when the new highway opened? Or was it three years ago, sitting beside a hospital bed while an old, dying man babbled out his sins in a fever dream?

Alice pulled her phone from her pocket.

She scrolled down her contacts until she reached Roger's name. She hadn't called or texted him since the morning at the fence in August.

She pressed his name.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Alice?"

His voice was different now—deeper, tired, stripped of the manic anxiety that had consumed him during their final confrontation.

"Hello, Roger," she said softly.

Silence stretched across the line, heavy with two months of unsaid words.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"I'm at your father's house," Alice said, looking out over the brown, dry lawn.

"Oh." A pause. "The receivers said the auction is set for next month."

"I know," Alice said. "I spoke to Martha Miller today. I gave her back her pension from Mercer Timber."

"That was good of you," Roger said. He sounded as if he were standing outside; she could hear the distant sound of ocean waves crashing against a shore in the background of the call. "She deserved it."

"Where are you, Roger?"

"A small town north of Cape Cod," he replied. "Working for a local boatyard. Fixing wooden hulls. It's quiet here."

Alice closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of his breathing over the phone line—the familiar, steady cadence that had been her anchor for two years.

"Do you hate me, Roger?" she asked, repeating the question Sarah had asked her weeks ago.

"Hate you?" Roger let out a soft, sad chuckle that broke her heart all over again. "Alice, I could live three lifetimes and never hold a single drop of hate for you. You did what was right. You gave your father his name back. I only hate myself for being too weak to give it to you myself."

"You handed over the papers," Alice reminded him gently. "You didn't fight me."

"Handing over papers after you've been caught isn't bravery, Alice," Roger said softly. "It's just surrender."

Alice wiped a single tear from her cheek before it could freeze in the autumn wind. "Goodbye, Roger."