The rolls are a little dense. Did they proof long enough?

The preliminary hearings for the State of Ohio versus Linda Vance took place in a crowded, gray-walled courtroom downtown in the middle of January.

Lucas and I didn't attend. We didn't need to. Detective Ryan had kept us informed of the proceedings, noting that Linda’s defense team had attempted to argue that the 2018 property transfer was a standard debt-relief agreement, but the paper trail—specifically the shell corporation bank accounts and the forged notary signatures—left zero room for negotiation.

The judge had denied bond due to flight risk, given that Linda had attempted to liquidate several offshore accounts through her cousin in Cincinnati the night before her arrest. She was facing up to ten years in a state correctional facility, with a mandatory restitution order that would strip away every remaining luxury asset she had spent a lifetime accumulating.

The Westerville house had been formally restored to Ryan Hayes’s name through an emergency civil injunction. Ryan had already listed the property for sale, intending to use the proceeds to establish a scholarship foundation in her father’s name at the local community hospital—the very hospital where I worked, and where our paths had first crossed in the trauma bay.

In the end, nothing of value was lost, and everything that mattered was saved.

On a quiet Sunday evening, exactly two months after the Thanksgiving dinner that changed everything, I stood at the island in our new New Albany kitchen, mixing a fresh batch of honey-wheat dough. The yeast bubbled softly in the warm water, filling the room with a rich, earthy aroma.

Lucas walked in from the garage, carrying a stack of firewood for the living room fireplace. He set the wood down, washed his hands at the sink, and walked up behind me, sliding his arms around my waist just like he did every evening.

“Smells incredible,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my neck.

“Good,” I smiled, flour dusting my cheek as I turned to face him. “Because if you tell me my rolls are dense tonight, you’re sleeping on the porch.”

He laughed, a rich, resonant sound that echoed off the clean white walls of our new home.