EPILOGUE

Epilogue

I run my hand across the books on the shelf in Cleo's childhood bedroom. The poetry is from high school: Mary Oliver, Adrienne Rich, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, Maya Angelou. Up above are a handful of books she saved from earlier childhood: Out of My Mind, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, The Giver, Little Women. Tucked at the far end is a single board book—a battered copy of Goodnight Moon. It's the one I used to read to Cleo every night, long past when it was age-appropriate. I pull it out now and sit down in the deep windowsill to thumb through the thick pages. It turns out I still know the words by heart. I will have to ask Cleo if she remembers when she arrives.

She's coming home for the summer, instead of attending the writing program at Middlebury she got into. Cleo wants to be around to help as I work my way through the rest of rehab. I did try to talk her out of it—told her I had someone lined up from a service to stay with me—but she insisted, saying the college would hold her spot for next summer. Despite my protests, I am so glad she'll be here.

I spent a few days in the hospital after Cleo found me, but, surprisingly, I wasn't in terrible shape. Official diagnosis: a TBI, traumatic brain injury, which was confirmed by an MRI, but luckily there were no signs of any bleeding on the CT scan, as George had surmised. He had indeed lost track of time, which—combined with my repeated post-traumatic amnesia-fueled demands for his silence—had resulted in him keeping my whereabouts to himself for far longer than he realized.

Gradually, many of the details of what happened have come back to me. Still, I have no memory of anything after Reed grabbed me by the back of the hair, except the awful thud as my head made contact with the counter. Apparently, I did yell, loud enough to scare off Reed and bring George running. But since I didn't yell "Fire," George hadn't called the police, and instead did what I asked by not telling anyone.

My prognosis is good, though it will take time to heal. It always does—so much more time than you think. And recovery often does not progress in a straight line. So I'm learning to focus instead on one small step at a time. And I'm trying hard to see everything that has happened as an opportunity, a second chance. For so much of my life I wanted to believe that I was fine because I had survived. But surviving, I have come to realize, is not the same as being alive.

Even once I have recovered physically, there will still be a lot to rebuild. My job, for one. I have the excuse of my injury for now, but there remains the possibility that I will be disbarred for disclosing the Darden documents, not that Darden has expressed any interest in participating in an ethics probe. At the moment, they have their hands full with dueling FBI and FDA investigations, not to mention the ongoing multidistrict litigation. That's on top of the forthcoming indictment of former general counsel Phil Beaumont and his henchmen for Doug's murder—which Lauren's friends in the Manhattan DA's office have assured me is imminent.

According to Jules, they were following Cleo, like she'd warned—no one was more confused or worried than Darden when I disappeared with Doug's damning emails. It was thanks to Tim Lyall's secretary leaving them out in plain sight in the workplace she shared with Jules—only for a few minutes, but long enough—that they came to be included in the lawsuit. And no one is happier than Jules that Darden has a spotlight on it these days. It's allowed her to feel safe focusing on Daniela and getting settled into the position at UNow that Vivienne found her.

Tim Lyall has wisely remained in Zurich on an extended sab batical, teaching at the Center for Security Studies. In any case, Blair, Stevenson has, thus far, not been held accountable for its role. Because so much of the firm's help was clandestine, there's simply no proof of wrongdoing. Mark continues on as managing partner at the firm, and I hear that billables are up—proving once again that all publicity is good publicity. I'm learning to accept the fact that maybe some people—some men especially—will forever emerge from disasters unscathed. Anyway, I choose to believe that, deep down, Mark knows what he did was wrong, and the true punishment will be having to live with that guilt.

I've already resigned from Blair, Stevenson, which means that for the first time in my professional life, I have no idea what comes next. I'm thinking of starting my own firm. There is room in the world for people who fix the right kinds of problems, second chances for people who make mistakes.

Other things have had a way of working themselves out, too. Like Aidan and Janine, whom Lauren saw arguing on the street when she came to visit the other day. I, for one, hope they share a very, very long life together. They deserve each other.

And Reed. He's being held at Rikers Island as a flight risk, denied bail as he awaits trial. Attempted murder, extortion, and assault. It's unclear if he'll face any charges for the string of young women he abused before Cleo and after me, but there's reason to hope he will. Vivienne was hugely helpful in locating these women and making sure they were aware of his arrest, in case they wanted to testify. But it was Wilson who'd known the second she laid eyes on fifty-one-year-old Reed and Cleo together, walking along the Hudson, that she needed to get her away from him. Of course, even once she had looked into him, all Wilson discovered was his checkered work history and changed names—not the connection to me.

At long last, my past has also been exhumed, my ugly mistakes dug up and dragged to the surface. As part of his defense, Reed has already revealed that I stabbed him years ago, and eventually, the whole sordid story will come out. The blood on my hands. But that doesn't feel so terrifying anymore—or at least, it doesn't feel only terrifying. A part of me knows it will be a relief.

Cleo has had questions, of course, about my past, my job, Aidan, who did return the money, for now. It remains to be seen how it will be divided once our divorce is finalized. Aidan's misappropriation of the funds might work in my favor in arguing that all of it should go into a trust for Cleo. And I've been as honest as I can be with Cleo, about everything. I don't always have the answers, but I'm finding that's what she appreciates most—my willingness to inhabit a space of uncertainty, with her.

And while it is true I did many things wrong as a mother, I know now that I did enough right, too. If I ever doubt that, all I need to do is look at Cleo, in all her Technicolor wonder. She isn't perfect. But she is everything that is good in me, and, more important, she's herself. And that's the only thing I've ever wanted her to be.

"Hey." When I turn, Cleo is standing in the doorway. "Shouldn't you be somewhere lying down or something?"

"I was just making sure everything was ready for you. No one's been in here for a while." I hold up Goodnight Moon. "Remember this?"

"Of course. Be careful with it."

She crosses the room to where I'm perched in the windowsill, her face lit up by the midday sun streaming in. She takes the book from me and slides it back into its place.

"I'm so glad you're home," I say, opening my arms for a hug.

As she leans over and I wrap my arms around her, Cleo feels at once small and so completely, fully grown.

"I'm glad I'm home, too," she says.

I loosen my embrace, but she doesn't let go—and so neither do I. Instead, I bury my face in her neck and breathe deep, the way she always used to when she was a little girl. She smells of violets, and hope.