Chapter 16: Morning After
Sunlight cut across her face, a sharp, warm blade. Teresa woke not to the slow seep of consciousness but to its full, sudden return. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cool where he had been. A brief, foolish panic fluttered in her chest before she saw it: a torn corner of notebook paper, weighted down by her coffee mug, on the bedside table.
She sat up, the worn cotton of his t-shirt—the one she’d stolen from the floor and pulled on in the night—swimming around her. She picked up the note.
Gone to debrief. Thorne’s lawyer making noise. Back by noon. Don’t do anything reckless. -C
His handwriting was a rushed, angular scrawl. She traced the letters with her thumb. A smile, small and private, touched her lips. The warmth of it spread through her, a counterpoint to the cool morning air. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her back, the solid anchor of his body throughout the night. They hadn’t done anything but sleep, a deep, dreamless sleep she hadn’t known in months. It felt more intimate than sex.
The smell of coffee led her to the kitchen. He’d made a full pot. The machine was still warm. Another simple, profound courtesy. She poured a mug, leaning against the counter as she looked out at the seascape. The ocean was choppy today, whitecaps like scattered teeth on grey-blue water.
Last night’s easy comfort felt distant now, layered over by the reality of his note. Thorne’s lawyer making noise. The system was rousing itself, a great, grinding machine designed to protect itself. To protect men like Marcus Thorne.
She took her coffee to the couch, pulling her knees up. The case file was a dark stain on her coffee table. She didn’t open it. Instead, she just watched the water, trying to hold onto the feeling of safety she’d woken with, trying to stitch it into her armor for the day ahead.
At 10:17, her phone buzzed. Not a text. A call from an unknown number.
Her stomach tightened. She set the mug down. “Hello?”
“Ms. Lovett.” The voice was a woman’s, polished smooth, devoid of inflection. “This is Miriam Vance, of Vance & Schreiber. I represent Marcus Thorne.”
Ice water trickled down Teresa’s spine. She stood up, the phone pressed hard to her ear. “How did you get this number?”
“That’s hardly relevant. I’m calling as a courtesy. I understand you’ve become quite… involved in the investigation concerning my client and Ms. Cassadee Rose.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“Yes. And that emotional investment is precisely what I wish to discuss.” A paper rustled on the other end of the line. “My client is prepared to acknowledge a certain level of… misguided passion in his interactions with Ms. Rose. He is deeply remorseful for any distress caused.”
Teresa’s blood began to pound in her ears. “Misguided passion. You mean abduction. Imprisonment.”
“Allegations,” Vance corrected, her tone never wavering. “Which will be vigorously disputed. The evidence is, shall we say, interpretable. Rose’s state of mind is tragically fragile. The testimony of a civilian with a pre-existing, intense emotional bond—a teacher prone to dramatic interpretations, we might note—could be seen as coercive, rather than corroborative.”
The room seemed to tilt. Teresa gripped the back of the couch. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m outlining reality, Ms. Lovett. The coming months will be grueling for Ms. Rose. A spectacle. Every aspect of her life, her past, her mental health, will be put on display and picked apart by experts my firm will hire. The narrative of an unstable young woman, encouraged by a zealous friend and an overeager detective with a personal vendetta, is a compelling one. Juries respond to neat stories.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
“Truth is what survives the process.” Vance paused. “My client is a generous man. He wishes to avoid further trauma for all involved. He is open to a settlement—a substantial financial package for Ms. Rose, for her care and her future, with a binding non-disclosure agreement. No trial. No public dissection. She can begin to heal, quietly. You can return to your life.”
The offer hung in the air, slick and poisonous. Teresa saw it for what it was: a clean, quiet burial. Cassadee’s truth locked away with a price tag, and Teresa herself muzzled forever.
“And if we refuse your client’s generosity?”
“Then we will defend him without quarter.” The professionalism cracked, just for a second, revealing a blade of cold steel beneath. “We will subpoena your phone records, your internet history, your personnel file. We will interview your students, your colleagues. We will paint you as a conspiracy-obsessed hysteric who implanted memories in a vulnerable victim. You will not enjoy the process, Ms. Lovett. And I doubt your relationship with Detective Nicholson will survive the scrutiny of a hostile cross-examination. The conflict of interest is… palpable.”
The front door opened.
Callum stood there, silhouetted against the daylight, a paper bag of what smelled like bagels in his hand. His smile faded as he took in her posture, the blanched knuckles gripping the phone, her face.
“Who is it?” he mouthed.
Teresa didn’t break eye contact with him. Her voice, when it came out, was steadier than she felt. “You listen to me, Ms. Vance. You tell your client there isn’t enough money in the world. You tell him we’re going to see him in court. And you tell him that every ‘expert’ he hires, every lie he tells, will just be another nail in his coffin. We’re not going quiet.”
She ended the call and dropped the phone onto the couch cushion as if it had burned her.
Callum was across the room in three strides. “Teresa. What was that?”
“Thorne’s lawyer.” The words tasted like metal. “Miriam Vance. She just offered us a settlement. A buy-off. With an NDA.”
His face went rigid. The bag of bagels hit the table. “She called you directly? That’s—”
“Intimidating a witness? Yeah, I got that.” A hysterical laugh choked her. “She said they’d come after me. My job. My ‘dramatic interpretations.’ They’ll say I coerced Cass. They’ll say you’re compromised because of… us.”
He reached for her, but she took a step back, hugging herself. The morning’s warmth was a dead, forgotten thing.
“They can try,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “They won’t win.”
“You don’t know that!” The anger erupted, hot and sudden. “She was so calm, Callum. She already has a story, and we’re just the crazy people in it. What if… what if putting Cass through all that is worse? What if they break her on the stand? What if I…”
He closed the distance then, his hands coming up to frame her face. His thumbs stroked her cheeks. “Look at me. They’re doing this because they’re scared. They would not offer a damn thing if they thought they could win clean. This is their Hail Mary. It’s garbage.”
She searched his beautiful, furious green eyes. “She mentioned your conflict of interest.”
“My interest is in seeing a predator put away. My interest is in you.” He said it with a finality that brooked no argument. “I will recuse myself from nothing. They want a fight? We’ll give them a war. But we do it together. All three of us. You, me, and Cassadee.”
The terror began to recede, not vanishing, but shrinking under the heat of his certainty. She leaned her forehead against his chest, breathing in the scent of him—starch, salt air, and now the faint, familiar smell of precinct coffee.
“I told her no,” she whispered into his shirt.
“I know you did.” He kissed the top of her head. “You’re the bravest person I know. Now, we have a visit to make. We need to tell Cassadee what’s coming. She deserves to hear it from us, not from some process server.”
Teresa nodded, pulling back. She wiped at her eyes, squared her shoulders. The fear was still there, a live wire in her gut, but it was joined now by a defiant, clearing rage.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked out into the brisk, bright day, towards the car, towards the next hard conversation. The cottage, with its warm coffee and tangled sheets, was a sanctuary behind them. Ahead was the battle. But for the first time, the path didn’t look like a lonely one. It looked like a front line, and they were standing on it together.