Chapter 226
Summer's POV
We left the police station together, all of us exhausted and traumatized but somehow lighter than we'd been when we arrived. The threat that had haunted Kieran's family for years was finally gone, and even though the grief was real—even though Catherine wept quietly in the back seat while Lily held her hand—there was also relief. There was freedom.
My mother had arranged a car to take the Cross family home. Kieran sat in the front passenger seat with his head tilted back against the headrest, his eyes half-closed, the bandage on his temple a stark white reminder of everything he'd endured. The paramedics had been firm: no driving, no unnecessary exertion, watch for signs of worsening concussion. So he let himself be taken care of for once, his bruised hands resting in his lap as the city lights slid past the window.
My mother took me home, and she ran me a bath and helped me wash the soot and blood from my hair while I cried and shook and tried to process everything that had happened. Later, lying in my bed with clean sheets and soft pillows, I texted Kieran: Are you okay?
His response came quickly: Physically, yes. Everything else... I don't know yet. Are you?
Same, I typed back. I keep seeing it all over again. The fire. The knife. Your face when I found you.
I keep seeing you swinging that pipe, he responded. You were terrifying. Remind me never to piss you off.
Despite everything, I found myself smiling. I love you, I sent. I'm so glad you're alive.
I love you too, he replied. Thank you for saving me. Again.
Always, I wrote, and I meant it with every fiber of my being. Always.
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The next few months were a blur of therapy appointments and police follow-ups and quiet evenings at home while Kieran's family tried to rebuild their lives without Drake's shadow hanging over them. Catherine found a better job at a small café in Back Bay, one that paid decent wages and didn't require her to work late nights. Lily started seeing a child psychologist who specialized in trauma and began the long process of learning to trust again, to believe that the adults in her life wouldn't hurt her. And Kieran threw himself into his studies with renewed focus, as if he was trying to prove that he could rise above his father's legacy, that he could become something more than just another Cross family tragedy.
My mother, true to her word, stayed involved with the Cross family. She helped Catherine find the new job, connected her with a therapist who offered sliding-scale fees, and even arranged for Lily to receive upgraded hearing aids through a program Hayes & Co. sponsored. It wasn't charity—Victoria made that clear—it was investment in family, in the people who mattered to me. And Catherine, after some initial resistance, learned to accept the help with grace.
We graduated from St. Jude's that spring, both of us walking across the stage to receive our diplomas while our families cheered from the audience. Kieran gave the valedictorian speech—a carefully crafted address about overcoming adversity and choosing your own path—and I played Chopin's Ballade No. 1 at the senior recital, my fingers flying across the keys with a passion I hadn't felt in years. We'd both been accepted to MIT, Kieran through the physics competition track and me through the arts program, and we'd both accepted our offers without hesitation.
The summer before college, we spent every moment we could together—studying at the library, walking along the Charles River Esplanade, helping Catherine and Lily settle into their new apartment in a safer neighborhood that my mother had helped them find. Mia came to visit from New York, where she'd been accepted to Columbia's journalism program, and the three of us spent a perfect afternoon in Boston Common, eating ice cream and talking about the future like it was something bright and full of possibility instead of something to be feared.
"You two are disgustingly in love," Mia said, watching Kieran and me with an amused expression as we sat close together on a bench, my head on his shoulder and his arm around my waist. "It's actually kind of adorable."
"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling. "You're just jealous because you don't have a boyfriend."
"I'm absolutely not jealous," Mia retorted. "I'm going to be a brilliant investigative journalist who doesn't need a man to complete her, thank you very much." She paused, then added more softly, "But I am happy for you. Both of you. You deserve this."
Kieran squeezed my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of his affection settle over me like a blanket. We'd been through hell together, had faced down literal fire and come out the other side, and now we had the rest of our lives stretching out before us. It felt like a gift, like something precious and fragile that we needed to protect with everything we had.
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MIT was everything I'd hoped it would be and more—challenging, exhilarating, occasionally overwhelming. Kieran thrived in his physics courses, his natural brilliance finally given the space to flourish without the weight of his father's abuse holding him back. I found my place in the music department, studying piano performance and composition while also taking enough liberal arts courses to satisfy my curiosity about the world. We lived in separate dorms but spent most of our free time together, studying in the library or grabbing late-night food at the dining hall or just walking around campus holding hands like we were still seventeen and discovering love for the first time.
Our friends from St. Jude's scattered across the country—Logan went to Stanford for computer science, Mia was thriving at Columbia, even Evan Whitmore ended up at Yale—but we stayed in touch through group chats and occasional visits. The physics competition crew had a reunion during winter break of our sophomore year, and it was strange to see how much we'd all changed, how much we'd grown into ourselves now that we were free from the pressure cooker of high school.
"You look happy," Logan said to me at one point during the reunion, watching Kieran across the room as he argued good-naturedly with Oliver about some obscure physics concept. "Like, genuinely happy. It's good to see."
"I am happy," I said, and I meant it. "We both are."