Epilogue

One month later

If someone had told me a year ago that Rosie and I would be spending New Year's Eve on the Jersey Shore, listening to a Bruce Springsteen tribute band called the Wrecking Balls ( Go, Balls! ) and having the time of our lives, I'd have said they were crazy. If they'd told me Richie would be with us and we'd feel at peace and in love with him in a way we'd never thought possible (I should have said "I" rather than "we," as I couldn't speak for Rosie), I'd have insisted they shut the hell up. Because now they were making fools of themselves, creating scenarios that didn't exist.

Yet here I was, at a table in Candy's Room, toasting the New Year with Richie and Rosie—champagne for us, a super-sized dog biscuit for her—listening to a killer version of "Badlands" and feeling pretty damn glorious.

In a way, my elation was understandable. No one had been killed or even injured during that horrible night at The Dunes. A rarity for me, anywhere. And in another shocker, I had Dylan Welch to thank for it. A few weeks ago, before he'd checked in to a real, serious rehab for a minimum of two months, Dylan had sent me an email. Thank you for saving my life , it read. And for reminding me what's really important. I suspected Lydia had coached him on it. It sounded just like something she would say, after all. But I could have said the same thing to him. He showed me what was really important. When I mentioned Dylan's mother and how she needed him, I saw a change, a spark in his eyes. And just like that, he shifted from killing himself to killing the trap he'd found himself in. It was powerful. Symbolic. And very true. One of the most important reasons to go on living is because we're needed by others—others we love.

I thought about being needed the whole time Dylan shot up the room and I was lying there on the floor, avoiding shrapnel. Who needs me in that reason-to-live way?

The answer, of course, was Richie. It had been the reason he'd asked me to reconsider the cases I took on—but it wasn't an ultimatum. He'd explained that recently. Although he'd said he certainly wouldn't mind if I stopped taking on dangerous cases, he was really just telling me to try to stay safe. He was willing to wait. Just like my mom had been. Not that love couldn't make some people reckless—Maurice had stolen pieces of evidence for his sidepiece, but that was nothing compared to what he'd done for their daughter. And now they'd both been charged with a long list of crimes. Sky was in jail, awaiting trial for the murder of Trevor Weiss, as well as conspiring to kill Dylan and me, kidnapping Dylan, and a slew of other charges. Meanwhile, Maurice had been charged as an accessory to murder and with conspiracy and kidnapping—but far worse for him was that his wife had learned about Sky's parentage at long last and left him. His empty-nester years looked bleak, to say the least.

But situations like those were rare. Richie loved Richard Jr. and me fiercely, protectively—and never involving felony indictments. After all the years we'd been together, Richie loved me for who I was—and that included my flaws, my misgivings, and my ever-present fear of putting my foot on the gas. And in turn, I'd put aside all of those things and agreed to tie the knot with him again…someday. In the future.

We even decided to make it official. Last week, Richie had asked my parents for my hand in eventual marriage. And, liberated soul that I am, I'd done the same with Desmond Burke. What the hell does "eventual marriage" mean? Desmond had said when I went to see him. And I'd replied, We'll see.

Desmond was wearing a tailored black suit at the time, and for a few seconds, I thought he'd dressed specially for the occasion. But as it happened, he'd just come back from a funeral—Moon Monaghan's. Poor Moon, he'd said solemnly. To live all those years only to step in front of a bullet. Such a pity. Hearty man like that. Wrong place, wrong time. All debts to Moon had been cleared—including Dylan's, which Desmond had pointed out. Moon should have consulted with me first, he'd said to me in that lyrical yet ominous Irish brogue. Were that the case—who knows? He might have chosen a safer path for his nightly walk.

At any rate, Richie and I were on the same page at last, and that's what I was thinking about when the band stopped playing and everybody started the countdown. I was thinking about it all the way until Richie got down on one knee, a black box in his hand.

10, 9, 8…

"What the actual hell, Richie?" I said.

He grinned. "Open it."

"I'm too scared."

Richie sighed. He opened the box. On the white satin pad stood a small gold key. I looked up at him. "It's the key to my heart," he said. "And it also happens to be the key to my apartment."

I laughed and teared up at the same time.

7, 6, 5, 4…

"Sunny Randall, my partner in crime, co-parent to Rosie, love of my life," Richie said. "Will you cohabitate with me for at least half the year?"

3, 2, 1…

Happy New Year!

I gazed into Richie's eyes and saw lifetimes within them— the one we'd lived together, the one we'd lived apart, this exciting new one that stretched out into the future, unknown and familiar at the same time. Uncertain as everything else was in my life, I knew one thing for sure: I needed Richie in it. I always would. And so I said yes. Obviously.