Chapter 10 - Sunlight
One year after the morning the nursery camera went offline, the coastal air outside our new home in Maine carried the sweet, crisp scent of pine and salt water.
The house sat on a low bluff overlooking the Atlantic, surrounded by wildflower meadows and an iron fence that kept the deer—and any unwanted visitors—firmly at bay. There were no hidden cameras here, only open windows, sunlight, and the steady, comforting rhythm of waves crashing against the rocks below.
Noah was taking his first unassisted steps on the wooden deck, his small hands outstretched for balance, his laughter ringing out clear and bright in the ocean breeze.
"Look at him, Grace," Evelyn said, walking out through the French doors carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. "He’s got your stubborn balance."
I smiled, taking the mug from her and watching my son chase a yellow butterfly across the cedar planks. "He’s got our stubbornness. That's what saved us."
My phone rested on the deck table. A notification appeared: a quarterly update from the state Department of Corrections victim notification portal.
*Inmate #849201 (Vance, Daniel) remains incarcerated at High-Desert Maximum Security Facility. Security level: Class-A Restricted. Next parole eligibility: 2059.*
I looked at the notification for three seconds, feeling nothing—no fear, no hatred, no lingering shadow of the nursery floor. Just the cool, peaceful finality of an old ledger closed and filed away forever.
I swiped the notification away and locked the phone.
Noah stumbled, his little knees meeting the soft outdoor rug, then looked up at me with wide, bright hazel eyes, waiting to see if he should cry.
I knelt down on the rug, my knees resting easily against the fabric, free of pain, free of fear. I opened my arms wide.
May you like
"Come here, Noah," I said, smiling in the bright morning sun.
Noah giggled, pushed himself up with all his strength, and ran straight into my arms.
