Chapter 66 One Year Later
August brought Ariella’s eighteenth birthday.
She’d forgotten about it entirely until Aiden woke her with coffee and terrible homemade pancakes.
“Happy birthday,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Oh. Right. That’s today.”
“You forgot your own birthday?”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“Well, you’re not busy today. We’re celebrating.”
He’d planned everything. Lunch at her favorite restaurant, Afternoon at Powell’s bookstore where she got lost in the cookbook section for two hours, Dinner at the bakery with Claire and Lily and Sophie, who’d driven in from college just for this.
“I can’t believe you’re eighteen,” Sophie said, hugging her. “Legal adult, Married, Survived a murder trial. What even is your life?”
“Complicated.”
“Understatement of the century.”
That night, back at the apartment, Aiden gave her a small wrapped box.
“It’s not much,” he said. “But I thought…”
Inside was a simple silver bracelet, engraved with coordinates.
“What are these?” Ariella asked.
“The bakery. Where we first met. Where everything started.” He helped her put it on. “I know it wasn’t a great beginning. But it led to us. And I wouldn’t change that.”
Ariella’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They made love that night with new tenderness. Not desperate like before, not seeking distraction from the crisis. Just connecting, choosing each other in the quiet space they’d built.
Afterward, lying tangled together, Aiden said: “I keep waiting for something terrible to happen. For the peace to shatter. Is that normal?”
“Probably. We’re traumatized. Peace feels suspicious.”
“When does that stop?”
“I don’t know. But maybe we just keep choosing this. Keep choosing quiet and normal and boring until our brains believe it’s safe.”
“Boring sounds amazing right now.”
“It really does.”
September arrived with the start of school.
Ariella’s first day at Le Cordon Bleu felt surreal. She was the youngest in her cohort, most students were career changers in their thirties. But she held her own, her years at the bakery giving her skills others were just learning.
Aiden started at Portland State the same week. He came home that first day with wide eyes and an armful of textbooks.
“There are so many people,” he said. “Just everywhere. Talking about normal things. Complaining about parking, stressing about assignments. No one knows who I am.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s perfect. I’m just another student.”
They fell into new routines. Morning coffee together. Classes all day. Evening study sessions at their tiny kitchen table. Weekend visits to Claire and Lily. Monthly therapy appointments.
Slowly, carefully, they built a life.
Not perfect. They still had nightmares sometimes. Still flinched at unexpected sounds. Still carried grief that would never fully heal.
But they were building something anyway.
In October, a letter came from the federal prison where Winters was serving his sentence.
Aiden stared at it for a long time before opening it.
“Do you want me to read it with you?” Ariella asked.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
The letter was short:
Mr. Frost,
I’m writing to inform you that my appeal was denied. I will serve my full sentence. Thirty years, unless I die first.
I still maintain my innocence. But I understand the court has decided otherwise.
I’m writing not to plead or apologize, but to inform you: the murder investigation is closed. The FBI has declined to file charges. Your father’s crimes remain his alone. My supposed crimes are adjudicated.
We will never agree on the truth. But the legal system has spoken.
I thought you should know.
J. Winters
Ariella read it twice. “He’s still claiming innocence.”
“Of course he is. Admitting guilt means admitting what he did to our families. He’ll die before he does that.”
“Does it bother you? That he won’t confess?”
“It did. But now…” Aiden crumpled the letter. “Now I just don’t care. He’s in prison. We’re free. That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“It has to be. Because I’m tired of letting him take up space in my head.”
He threw the letter away.
And they went back to their homework, their normal evening, their chosen life.
Sometimes justice wasn’t perfect.
Sometimes it was just enough to survive and move forward.
And sometimes that was okay.
The invitation arrived in late October, nearly two years after everything began.
You are cordially invited to the dedication of the Hayes-Frost Community Center, honoring Ethan Hayes and Catherine Marie Frost.
Ariella stared at it, confused. “Did you know about this?”
Aiden looked sheepish. “Marcus might have mentioned something.”
“Aiden.”
“Okay, yes. I knew. I helped plan it. Surprise?”
The community center was Richard’s final gift, funds allocated in his will to build something in Catherine and Ethan’s names. A space for job training, GED programs, food assistance, and resources for families struggling like Ariella’s had been.
“You built this?” Ariella asked.
“I designed it. The Frost Industries foundation funded it. Your mom helped plan the programming. It’s…” He took her hand. “It’s what they would have wanted. Something that actually helps people instead of just being a memorial plaque somewhere.”
The dedication ceremony was small and intimate. Just family and a few community members who’d already started using the center’s programs.
Claire spoke first, standing at the podium with more confidence than Ariella had seen in years.
“My son Ethan believed in doing the right thing, even when it was hard. He saw injustice and tried to fix it. That cost him his life, but it also showed me what courage looks like.” Her voice was steady. “This center isn’t just a memorial. It’s a continuation of his work. Helping people who need it. Being the kind of place that would have helped us when we were drowning.”
She unveiled the plaque: In memory of Ethan Hayes and Catherine Frost. Those who fight for justice never truly die.
Lily played piano, a piece she’d composed herself, beautiful and melancholy. Aiden gave a short speech about his mother’s investigative spirit, her refusal to look away from hard truths.
Then Ariella stepped up, unplanned.
“I don’t have a speech prepared,” she said. “But I wanted to say Ethan would have loved this. Not the attention or the memorial, but the actual work being done here. He was practical like that. He’d have wanted something useful.”
She looked at the small crowd.
“For a long time, I thought honoring him meant destroying the person who killed him. Getting revenge. Making sure everyone knew what happened. But I think…I think he’d rather be honored this way. By helping people. By building something that lasts.”
Her voice caught.
“So thank you. To everyone who made this possible. To my husband who designed a space that actually feels welcoming instead of institutional. To my mom who turned grief into action. To Marcus who managed the impossible logistics. And to Ethan and Catherine, wherever you are, I hope this makes you proud.”