Chapter 8 - Truth and Reckoning
Six months later.
The spring thaw brought vibrant green shoots through the damp New England soil, filling the air with the scent of blooming lilac and rain-washed pine.
Inside the private obstetrician’s office in downtown Boston, the steady, rhythmic sound of two distinct heartbeats filled the sterile examination room like a pair of tiny drums beating in unison.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Dr. Sarah Sterling, one of the country’s most respected maternal-fetal medicine specialists—personally brought onto my medical team by a quiet, confidential call from Garrison—smiled warmly as she wiped the ultrasound gel from my growing abdomen.
“Well, Mrs. Blackwood,” Dr. Sterling said cheerfully, handing me a tissue. “Your blood pressure is stellar, the development is textbook perfect, and those twins are growing strong and healthy. You are officially glowing.”
I smiled, resting my hand gently over my stomach, marveling at the miracle of new life growing inside me.
When Garrison and I had quietly married in a small, intimate ceremony at a secluded lakeside chapel three months earlier, the local gossips in Cedar Hollow had nearly choked on their morning coffee. An aging retired sheriff and the brilliant, resilient woman who had brought down a corporate titan—it was the kind of romance people wrote novels about.
And now, carrying twins, my life had expanded into a joy I never knew was possible in the dark days of my first marriage.
When I walked out of the clinic doors into the warm spring sunshine, Garrison was waiting by his truck. He wore his usual dark jacket, leaning against the fender with a patient, watchful stance.
As I crossed the sidewalk toward him, he pushed off the truck, his blue eyes instantly searching my face with that familiar, fierce protectiveness.
“Well?” he asked, stepping close and gently resting his large palm over my stomach.
“Two healthy babies,” I beamed, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Heartbeats are strong, and the doctor says everything is completely on track.”
Garrison let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, pulling me into a tight, grounding embrace. He pressed a warm kiss into my hair, his voice thick with emotion.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “Thank God.”
“You know,” I murmured against his chest, smiling. “There’s someone in Boston who is probably having a very bad day today.”
Garrison pulled back slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”
“Julian’s appellate attorney filed a final, desperate motion for sentence reduction this morning, claiming undue hardship,” I said smoothly. “Evelyn Vance texted me an hour ago. She crushed it in court in less than ten minutes. The judge didn't just deny the motion; he added six months to Julian’s sentence for frivolous filings.”
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Garrison let out a low, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head. “Julian never learned when to quit while he was ahead.”
“Some men spend their whole lives believing they can manipulate the world,” I said, taking Garrison’s hand as we walked toward the passenger door of his truck. “And others spend their lives quietly making things right.”
