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She barked a short laugh. “Please. Just preventing a callout. A severed limb or broken neck’s a lot harder to patch than a split brow.”
But it was more than that.
She had brought him into her home — into her sanctum she kept private.
The evening he installed the doggie door was the last time he’d been invited. In fact, since her move, they hadn’t spent much time together. His life was full, what with his work and her shifts.
Add in Davey’s basketball schedule — he’d committed to the season, roped in by the coach, pulled deeper with every passing week — so spare time was limited. But he loved his time with the kids, drew something steady from their energy and their uncomplicated enthusiasm.
Made him regret that he and Violet—
And just like that, he was back in moroseville.
Two years. She’d been gone only two years.
And yet their life together felt … distant.
Like it belonged to someone else.
“I should’ve felt … more.” The words came out rough. Unplanned.
Felicity stilled across from him, her mug halfway to her mouth.
“I went out,” he went on, his voice low. “Had a few drinks. Got into a fight.” His jaw tightened. “Not because I missed Violet.” His gaze lifted to hers. “But because I didn’t feel enough.”
Silence settled between them.
“We were together from fourteen. Married at nineteen. That’s twenty-five years, Felicity.” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “And there’s no deep-seated grief. Just … regret.”
Had he ever truly loved Violet? Or had he simply mistaken loyalty and familiarity and lifelong friendship for love? Maybe Violet had understood the difference long before he did.
Like he did now.
Felicity laid a hand over his.
He looked up, noting the frown creasing her brow, the concern softening her mouth. “You’re looking for the moment you failed.” Her thumb brushed once across the back of his hand. “Sometimes there isn’t one. Sometimes people make choices. Sometimes they hurt the people who least deserve it.” She held his gaze. “Sometimes people are just fucking selfish. Your wife included.”
He huffed a quiet breath. Trust Felicity to see it that way.
“And if you ever need to go out and drown your sorrows again,” she said, “take me with you. That way we can avoid the fistfights.” Straightening, she nudged the plate toward him. “Finish your food.”
Ronan stared at it for a second, the knot in his chest easing beneath her matter-of-fact care, then picked up his fork. He ate in silence until the last piece of toast was gone. “I like this,” he said finally. “Us.”
“Yeah?” She let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. “Let's not make a habit of it.”
He jerked back, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Lissy-love.”
“And calling me Lissy-love?” She shot him a look. “Not helping your case.”
23
Aftermath
Felicity’s first stop was Fitzpatrick’s, where she picked up a copy of the previous night’s surveillance footage. Why she wanted it, she wasn’t entirely sure, but something told her it mattered.
She arrived at work with the footage on an external drive. Grateful to see the sheriff in, she rapped on his doorframe.
He looked up. “You just missed your man.”
