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"We've been so wrapped up with Joslyn," her father added, his face creasing with guilt, "that we forgot about the risks you take every day."
Fiona felt the pressure of their hug tightening around her bandaged neck, but she didn't wince. Their concern was a balm to her bruised spirit, even as it smothered her slightly.
"Joslyn?" Fiona managed to whisper through the pain. Her thoughts flew to her sister, whose silence had been a heavy shroud over the family for too long.
Her parents stepped back, their hands lingering on her as if to ensure she was real, unharmed by their grasp. "She's... well, she hasn't spoken again," her mother said, the light dimming in her eyes for an instant before reigniting. "But she seems more alert, Fiona. There's something different about her gaze, as if she's fighting to break the surface."
A smile flickered across Fiona's face, cutting through the discomfort. Alert. That was promising. In the world of entomology, behavior was a sign of life, a signal that there was still fight left within. If Joslyn was becoming more aware, then maybe, just maybe, the cocoon that held her captive was beginning to unravel.
"Can I see her?" Fiona asked, her voice tinged with hope.
"Of course, honey." Her father nodded, the undertaker's habitual somberness shifting into something softer. "When you're ready."
"Thank you," Fiona murmured. Despite everything, Fiona clung to the belief that, like the intricate webs spun by the orb-weaver spiders, connections mattered—and Joslyn's reawakening connection to the world was a thread worth following.
The rap on the door was soft, almost hesitant, but it shattered the fragile calm that had settled in the sterile hospital room. Fiona's parents, who had been hovering close by, turned as one toward the sound. Jake stepped into the threshold, eyes scanning the room before settling on Fiona. His posture was a mix of concern, etched with palpable relief.
"Jake," her father said, stepping forward and clasping the younger man's hand fervently. "Thank you for what you did. You're a good man."
"Couldn't have done anything less," Jake replied, his voice tinged with modesty. A slight discomfort flickered across his features, a telltale sign that praise sat uneasily on his shoulders.
"Thank you," her mother added, her words laden with gratitude. She reached out to touch his arm briefly before looking at her daughter. "We'll give you two a moment."
Fiona watched as her parents filed out, their silent exchange speaking volumes. They trusted Jake; they owed him their daughter's life. The door clicked shut behind them, and she felt the shift in the room as privacy enveloped them.
"Hey, Red," Jake murmured, taking a seat beside her bed. His hand found hers, warm and steady. He looked into her eyes, and she saw the unspoken fear that had haunted him since the attack—a fear that mirrored her own.
"Jake..." Fiona started, but her throat tightened around the word. Swallowing hard against the pain, she tried again. "I could see it in your eyes, back there. You were scared."
"Terrified," he admitted, his grip tightening ever so slightly. "Seeing you like that... I thought I'd lost you."
They fell into silence, a comfortable space they had learned to share. It was filled with the unspoken understanding of two people who had faced death together. They didn't need to rehash the grisly details; the end of Gregory's reign of terror was closure enough.
"Gregory's gone," she whispered, the simple truth carrying the weight of finality. "It's over."
"It is," Jake agreed, his voice low but firm. "And there's justice for my mom now. Fifteen years... and finally, this."
Fiona nodded, feeling the closure for Jake's long-held wound, for the women whose lives had been brutally taken, for the city that could breathe easier now. Gregory Dalton would haunt no more kitchens, plant no more spiders. And while the ache in her neck was a reminder of how close she had come to being another of his victims, the presence of Jake—steady and true—was a balm against the memory of steel against her skin.
Fiona's gaze lingered on Jake, the sharp lines of worry that had creased his forehead now smoothed into a look of quiet resignation. "I wish we could have seen him stand trial," he said, eyes clouding over with a regret that seemed to age him beyond his years.
"Me too," Fiona murmured, though in her heart, the relief of survival was a louder beat than the desire for prolonged justice. She had attended enough trials as an analyst to know the agony of reliving trauma in the pursuit of legal retribution. "But you're here, and I'm here. That's what matters."
Jake nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. The room felt smaller, somehow, the two of them cocooned within it, away from the horrors that had so nearly claimed Fiona's life. Her fingers brushed against the scratchy hospital blanket, the sensation grounding her as she leaned into the moment's fragile peace.
The door burst open with such sudden force that Fiona's heart stuttered in her chest. Her parents stood framed in the doorway, their faces alight with an emotion she hadn't seen in ages—hope. "Fiona, darling!" her mother exclaimed, rushing forward with arms wide.
"Joslyn's awake," her father said, voice thick with unshed tears. "She's asking for you!"
A surge of emotions flooded through Fiona, a torrential mix of joy and disbelief. Joslyn, her sister who had been lost in more ways than one, reaching out from the silence that had ensnared her. Fiona felt the bandages tug at her neck as a smile broke through, the pain a dull ache compared to the elation blossoming within her chest.
"Really?" The word was a breath, barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
"Really." Her mother nodded emphatically, her eyes glistening with tears.
"Can I see her?" Fiona asked, pushing herself up despite the weakness that protested every movement.
"Of course, love. Of course." Her father moved closer, ready to assist.
