A Stranger Handed Me a Blue Box at Church and Said, “You’ll Need This Tonight”—I Wish I’d Opened It Sooner

Time stopped. A year of grief collided with impossible reality. “You’re alive,” I whispered.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m alive. I’m here.

I’m so sorry, Simon.”

Around us, FBI agents secured the scene with professional efficiency. Zip-ties. Miranda rights.

The choreography of justice. Sheriff Brennan recognized her, his face draining of color. “Elena… you’re supposed to be—”

“Elena Rodriguez died,” Blair said.

“Blair Grant survived.”

Brennan drew his weapon in a last desperate act, but he aimed it at me—if he couldn’t have Blair, he’d take her husband. Before he could fire, Raymond Burke tackled him with forty years of betrayed friendship behind the blow. The weapon discharged into the ceiling as they fought.

“He was my friend!” Raymond choked out as FBI agents pulled them apart. “How could you?”

They hauled Brennan away in handcuffs, still screaming threats that meant nothing anymore. Callahan surrendered immediately, already offering cooperation.

Amber and Rowan sat against the wall in cuffs, both looking small and defeated. Through the smoke and the chaos, Blair walked toward me. We stood facing each other with a year between us and a lifetime of questions in the air.

“I know you’re angry,” she said. “I know what I did is unforgivable. But you’re alive.

That’s all that mattered.”

I closed the distance and pulled her into my arms. She collapsed against me, sobbing. “I’m sorry.

God, Simon, I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you every day.”

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