Chapter 9 - The Homecoming
By the following weekend, the house on Elm Street was quiet again.
The lavender balloons had been taken down, the party debris cleared away, and the hardwood floors polished until they shone. But the heavy, oppressive shadow that had hung over our lives for eighteen months was entirely gone.
Lucy sat at the dining room table, wearing her favorite pink pajamas, happily eating a massive slice of leftover birthday cake with a dollop of vanilla ice cream.
"Mommy, can we have lavender balloons again next year?" she asked, looking up at me with her bright, clear eyes, completely unaware of how close she had come to the edge of the abyss.
I walked over, pulling out the chair beside her, and sat down, wrapping my arm around her small shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of her dark curls.
"We can have whatever color balloons you want, sweetheart," I smiled, my heart swelling with an overwhelming rush of protective warmth. "As many as you want."
Michael walked into the dining room carrying two mugs of coffee, handing one to me before leaning against the doorframe with a relaxed, relieved smile.
"News on the evening report," Michael said, nodding toward the television in the living room where a local news anchor was speaking.
"...and in financial developments today, state regulators have confirmed that Whitaker Foodservice Supply under new executive leadership has cooperated fully with federal investigators regarding an ongoing embezzlement probe," the anchor reported. "Former COO Colin Doyle remains held without bail at the county detention center facing multiple felony counts..."
Michael clicked the remote, plunging the room back into a peaceful, comfortable silence.
"How’s your mother taking it?" Michael asked quietly, sitting down across from us.
"She’s staying at a hotel downtown for a few days," I sighed, stirring my coffee. "She called this morning. She realized finally that my military paranoia wasn't paranoia at all—it was just survival instinct."
May you like
"It’s hard for people who’ve lived safe, ordinary lives to accept that monsters sometimes wear three-piece suits and sit at Sunday dinner," Michael said gently, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
"Well," I said, looking from my husband to my daughter, who was now happily feeding a small bite of cake to her stuffed rabbit. "They picked the wrong target."
