THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE CONCRETE STAIRS

Two Weeks Later.

The Arizona heat was forgiving in the early mornings, carrying the scent of dry earth and sweet sagebrush. I was in the kitchen, brewing coffee, watching the steam curl into the sunlight filtering through the blinds.

The house was quiet. My dad was still asleep in the master suite that Roman had specifically remodeled for accessibility, and Lily was curled up in her bed, exhausted from a weekend camping trip.

I heard soft, heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor.

Roman walked into the kitchen. He was holding two coffee mugs. He set them gently on the counter, his eyes fixed on the coffee pot, but his mind clearly miles away.

“Can't sleep?” I asked softly, pouring the dark roast into his mug.

Roman sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. As he did, the collar of his t-shirt slipped just enough to reveal a jagged, thick white scar running down his collarbone. It was an old wound, one I had never seen before.

“Just thinking,” Roman murmured, wrapping his large hands around the warm mug. “About Chicago. About how easily it all almost slipped away.”

I paused, setting the pot down. The happy ending we had built over the last year was real, but the trauma of that night in the private garage still left shadows in the corners of this bright house.

“Blair is in federal prison, Roman,” I reminded him gently. “Leo is gone. The council is dismantled. They can't hurt you anymore.”

“I know,” Roman said, his voice dropping an octave. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine. “But I didn't come in here for coffee, Emily. I came to ask you a question. Something that’s been bothering me since we left the city.”

My stomach tightened slightly. “What is it?”

Roman reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, folded piece of paper and laid it flat on the kitchen island.

I leaned in.

It was a receipt. An old, faded grocery store receipt, dated seven months ago. Just one month before the explosive night at the mansion.

“I found this in Sara’s old jewelry box when we were packing up her things from the Chicago safehouse,” Roman explained quietly. “Look at the items.”

I read the faded ink. Children’s Tylenol. Apple juice. A pink stuffed rabbit. A pack of crayons.

“Okay?” I said, confused. “She was buying things for Lily. Even when she was exiled, she was trying to send her gifts.”

Roman shook his head slowly. “Sara didn't buy these to send to the mansion, Emily. Blair had blocked all mail. The security team destroyed any packages with Sara’s name on them. Sara knew that.”

He tapped the bottom of the receipt. “Look at the address of the grocery store.”

I squinted.

Oakhaven Pharmacy & Grocery.

My blood ran cold.

Oakhaven. That was the name of the town where my father’s assisted living facility was located. It was forty miles outside of Chicago. A tiny, secluded suburb.

“Why was Sara in Oakhaven?” Roman asked, his gaze intense, searching my face. “Why was my wife buying children’s medicine in the exact same obscure town where your father was being held hostage by Blair?”

I stepped back from the counter, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn't have an answer.

Before I could speak, the kitchen phone rang. It was the loud, sharp ringtone of the secure landline the US Marshals had installed for us.

We both jumped. Roman snatched the receiver off the wall.

“Hello?” he answered.

He listened for exactly three seconds.

His face drained of all color. The coffee mug in his hand slipped, crashing to the floor and shattering into dozens of pieces, hot coffee splattering across his jeans.

Roman slowly lowered the phone.

“Roman?” I whispered, terrified. “Who was that?”

He looked at me, his eyes wide with a fear I hadn't seen since the basement.

“That was the Federal Warden at ADX Florence,” Roman choked out. “Blair was transferred to the infirmary last night for an appendicitis scare.”

“And?”