But he’d chosen the right side. Finally. When it mattered most.
After the police left, after Sterling and Bella were driven away in separate squad cars, James and I sat alone in the great room.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything. For all of it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll go to rehab for the gambling. I’ll face whatever charges come. I won’t run.”
“I know that, too.”
“Do you think—” He stopped, started again. “Do you think we can ever fix this? You and me?”
I looked at my son. Saw the damage. Saw the potential for healing. Saw the long road ahead.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But you’re alive. I’m alive. That’s more than Sterling intended.”
“Where do we start?”
“With the truth. All of it. To the police. To your kids. They deserve to know why you disappeared from their lives. To yourself.”
James nodded, wiped his eyes.
“Can I stay on the couch? Just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I should have said no. Should have protected myself. Kept distance.
But he was still my son. Broken, but mine.
“One night,” I said. “Then you check into rehab. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed.
That night, I finally slept. Really slept for the first time since Robert died because the threat was over.
Or so I thought.
I found out when Thomas called at 6:00 a.m., waking me from the first real sleep I’d had in days.
“They set bail at $500,000,” he said. “He posted it immediately. Evelyn—he’s out.”
I sat up, heart pounding. “How? The charges—”
“He has an expensive lawyer. Argued he’s not a flight risk. That the charges are based primarily on a recording that could be challenged as entrapment.” Thomas’s voice was tight with frustration. “The judge bought it. He’s out pending trial.”
“What about the restraining order?”
“It’s in place. He can’t come within 500 feet of you or the property. But Evelyn—men like Sterling don’t always respect legal boundaries.”
I looked at James still asleep on the couch, his face peaceful for the first time in days. He’d talked until midnight about the gambling, the debts, the lies he’d told himself. Then he’d cried. Really cried. And I’d held him like I used to when he was small and the world felt too big.
“What do I do?” I asked.
“Come stay with me and my wife,” Thomas urged. “Just for a few days until the arraignment.”
“No. That’s giving him power. Letting him chase me from my own home.”
“Then let me hire private security.”
“With what money, Thomas? I can’t afford bodyguards.”
He was quiet.
Then: “Robert’s account. There’s enough.”
“That money is for property taxes, maintenance—”
“You can’t spend it if you’re dead.” His voice softened. “Please. Let me at least hire someone for the nights. Someone to watch the property while you sleep.”
I wanted to refuse. To be brave and independent.
But I thought about Sterling’s face when he threatened me. The cold certainty in his eyes.
“Okay,” I said. “But just nights. During the day, I’m fine.”
A retired sheriff’s deputy—62, kind eyes that had seen too much darkness—arrived that evening at 6:00 p.m.
“I’ll be outside in my truck,” he said. “Motion sensors on all the doors and windows. Anyone comes near the property, I’ll know. You need me, press this.” He handed me a small button. “Emergency alert. Goes straight to my phone and 911.”
“Thank you.”
“Rick Sanderson told me what you’re dealing with. Men like Sterling.” He shook his head. “They don’t take losing well. You did good standing up to him, but be careful. The most dangerous time is right after they’ve been caught.”
That night, I tried to sleep. Failed. Every sound was a potential threat. Every creak of settling timber was an intruder.
At 2:00 a.m., my phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.
You think you won? You didn’t. This isn’t over.
I showed Marcus—the deputy—in the morning. He photographed it. Sent it to the police.
“Violation of the restraining order,” he said. “But they’ll say they can’t prove Sterling sent it. Burner phone. Untraceable.”
