The human body is simply not designed to sustain a 104-degree fever.

Two months after the trial, the crisp October air blew gold and red maple leaves across the porch of my new home in coastal Maine.

I had sold the house on Maple Street—the house that carried so many dark, suffocating memories—and used my liquidated trust fund to purchase a quiet, four-bedroom cottage overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I had opened a new branch of my interior design firm, catering to local historic restorations and coastal homes.

My leg still ached whenever a cold rainstorm rolled in over the bay, but every time I felt that faint throb, it served as a quiet reminder that I was alive, free, and completely sovereign.

A soft knock sounded at my front door.

I opened it to find Detective Miller—now retired from the force—wearing a casual sweater and holding a bottle of white wine.

"Hey, stranger," Miller smiled, holding up the bottle. "Thought I’d check in on my favorite survivor."

"Miller!" I beamed, stepping back to let her inside. "Come in! The seafood chowder is almost ready."

We sat on the back deck, watching the waves crash against the rocky shore as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant shades of violet and crimson.

"I got an update from the State Department of Corrections yesterday," Miller said, taking a sip of wine. "Tristan’s final appeal was rejected. He’s been transferred to the maximum-security facility in Walpole. He’s working in the laundry unit for twelve cents an hour."

I looked out at the vast, open ocean, feeling a quiet sense of peace settle over my heart.

"A year ago, Miller," I murmured, staring at the white surgical scar on my leg, "I thought my life was over. I thought I was weak because I let him control me for so long."

Miller reached over and rested her hand gently on my shoulder.

"You were never weak, Reese," she said firmly. "You survived a poisoner, unlocked a deadbolt with your bare hands, climbed out a fire window on a infected leg, and fought off an attacker in a dark hospital room. You are the strongest person I have ever met."

I looked at Miller, then down at my hands—hands that were no longer shaking, no longer clutching a phone in terror, but strong, clear, and steady.

I raised my glass toward the open sea.