Extended Epilogue

LOGAN

Three Years Later

" A t ease, senator." I croon the words, sliding my hands over her hips from behind, pushing her feet farther apart out of habit.

"I'll take care of this. You've got a speech to get ready for, remember?"

She leans back into me while baby James gurgles up at us both from the changing table—the same desk he was conceived on, which is why it's an instant heirloom.

"How's my security detail looking?" my wife asks, already doing the voice.

It's that senator tone she takes on so easily now. Makes me harder than artillery fire when she does it though, every damned time.

"Present and accounted for," I reply, pecking her neck. "Now, will you move it? I got a bomb to dispose of here."

I lift James' loaded diaper over to the trash, cleaning him up and fastening a fresh change for him, before I lean down and kiss him too.

Cradling our youngest in my elbow, we touch heads, my free hand resting on her belly. The senator voice is one thing, but pregnant-again Stephanie is my real weakness.

She was all set to hang up the senator idea too, but her voting public had other ideas once her story broke. Ret's indiscretions weren't hers and people, young voters especially, saw that.

Once Stephanie realized the real difference she could make to so many lives, not just ours, it was something she embraced on one condition.

That I be with her every step of the way.

Easier said than done with a baby in tow and now twins on the way. But remote meetings and some changes to how a senator can come to work mean we still have plenty of time each day for what matters most to us.

Family.

I haven't had to kill anyone lately, and Ret's trials look set to continue long after he dies of old age in prison.

We've found each other though, Stephanie and me. That's all that matters now.

She's all I need and she knows damned well I'll always have her back. And her front for that matter. Tonight's speech is the opening of a second specialized center the Foster Foundation has funded.

Not a shelter or some token helpline going nowhere. The Stephanie Foster Center is there to help women of any age who want out of controlling and dangerous relationships with their partners or even their parents.

It's housing, security, legal help. All the common sense things needed to actually help folks who need it. And it was all her idea. Bankrolled by herself, to begin with.

It has grown to become a government initiative and tonight, I've never been prouder of her. Except maybe

the night James was born.

And that time at the lake.

But tonight isn't all chest swells and compliments from me. I've got work to do myself.

I still take my job deadly seriously. My family's security has always been my main priority. I'd never let anyone else lead our own personal security detail. It's the only thing I need to remind her of occasionally.

I know exactly what's out there. My job is to keep her and our kids lightyears away from it.

The nightmares stopped for me a long time ago. I still jolt awake several times a night, but only for diaper duty. No looking over my shoulder unless it's checking for milk spots after burping James.

It's the life I never knew existed let alone needed more than anything. My reason not just to live but to live with someone who matters the most.

"You coming or what?" Stephanie asks me, making a face and poking out her tongue like she does every time she catches me zoning out.

She's all ready to go and looking more incredible than ever.

"Uh, sure. What's this?" I ask, holding up the thick, oblong brown envelope peeking under the front door.

"How would I know?" She shrugs, glancing at her watch and thumbing a clip-on earring. James makes his own ‘ I just filled my diaper again' face.

It could be what I think it is, or it could just be regular old mail.

Whatever it is, it's still not enough to make me even think about looking back. We made a promise to never look back, Stephanie and me.

And the longer I look at her, tonight especially, I only ever want to look forward to a future with her in it.

On the way down to the car, I take a minute to slip the envelope into the basement furnace, the final orders I received still ringing in my ears.

"You're free, Logan. Dismissed."

THE END