"He took my Perry from me," she ranted, shaking. "And all of you wanted to hide that fact. All of you. I killed them. I killed them all because they were more interested in protecting their reputations, protecting a killer, instead of finding justice for one of your own. How could you?"

She turned to Culpepper. "How could you?" she screamed.

Karen Fisher fired at Culpepper, hitting him in the head.

Before anyone could react, she turned the gun up to her chin and pulled the trigger.

Epilogue.

In your presence I don't want what I thought I wanted.

-Rumi Savage River

Dr. Samantha Owens

Three days later

The file was closed on Donovan's death. Karen Fisher's claim that she was the killer had credence, but it was the detailed letter in her car, a suicide note, that allowed them to piece together the rest of the story. She'd gone to Culpepper and asked about the friendly fire, and Culpepper was smart enough to know he needed to keep her close to make sure the whole truth didn't come out. He'd manipulated her, played her, gotten her turned around in circles until she started to think he was lying to her. The only thing she felt she could do was start asking the men questions. When she'd uncovered the information about Maggie's little girl, Culpepper saw an opportunity to clean up his mess for good, and Karen, in her furious grief, had complied.

They were going to have to wait for Culpepper to wake up to confirm that truth to that theory. Karen's shot had gone a little wide, putting Culpepper in a coma, though not killing him. Her last shot, though, did count. She died in the medevac helicopter before it landed at the bottom of the mountain.

Sam had stuck around long enough to look through the pages Donovan had torn from his journal, which detailed Karen Fisher coming to him in the extortion attempt. She'd sworn to tell Susan that Maggie's daughter was his, and all about the friendly fire incident. Her plan was to destroy him completely if he didn't pay her off. She knew the Donovans had money. She knew they could afford it. When Donovan said no, threatened to take a DNA test to prove Jen Lyons was not his child, she'd gone to Culpepper. And things unraveled from there. Sam realized Donovan tore out the pages for two reasons-first, for insurance, in case everything exploded, which of course it had. Second, he was ashamed. He was still operating under the illusion that he'd killed Perry Fisher, and he'd briefly considered capitulating to Karen Fisher's wishes to keep the story quiet.

Sam made sure that part was kept from the Washington media, who, through multiple exposes that would certainly be Pulitzer contenders, detailed the whole story. USA TODAY even gave Taranto a posthumous byline, printing his notes, his theories, embellishing the story with the help of a colleague. Sam was glad to see him honored-he'd taken more of a risk sharing his story with her than anyone had realized.

And then there was nothing left for her to do, but return to Nashville, and get her own life back on track.

Susan and Eleanor hadn't wanted her to leave. As much as she enjoyed their company, she needed to. They had a little farewell party for her, just the three of them and a bottle of scotch, toasting the man they all had loved.

The following morning, head aching, heart sore, Sam packed her things and headed to the airport.

Somewhere between Key Bridge and Reagan National, as she'd thought of the dark soulful eyes she'd come to enjoy looking at, her phone rang. A deep voice, not pleading, but filled with need, simply said, "Don't go."

She'd listened for a few moments, then hung up and told the cab to turn into the car rental instead of Departures.

She'd called Fletcher as she was driving up to the mountains. Told him what she was doing. He wished her well, though she could hear the note of sadness in his voice.

She called Taylor, and warned her she wouldn't be back for a little while. Taylor was overjoyed at that news, for all the right reasons.

She called Forensic Medical and told them she was taking a sabbatical. They, too, were happy and understanding.

It was time for Sam to get her life back together. It seemed everyone had known that but her.

When she'd arrived in Savage River for the second time, driving up the rutted road that seemed to be even worse than she remembered, she'd had a moment of panic. What are you doing? She felt the urge to wash and, just as quickly, turned the thought off. She didn't need that crutch anymore.

At the end of the long, unpaved driveway, Xander and Thor were waiting for her. Xander's lighthouse smile filled her, and she returned his grin as he helped her from the car.

"I didn't think you'd come."

"Neither did I. I'm honestly not quite sure what I'm doing here."

"You're healing," he said, and pulled her into his arms.

Sam and Xander had spent the last few days just hanging out, watching Thor gambol around the clearing, getting to know each other. Today was no different. Feeling especially lazy, Sam lay in the hammock, a toe on the ground, idly pushing herself. She enjoyed the motion of the swing. She liked being here, in the mountains. The sun was bright and warm on her shoulders. She'd slept like the dead, eaten all manner of male-oriented food and dispensed with her sunscreen. Freckles paraded across her nose.

Xander was a surprise. Erudite, funny, amazingly kind, he kept her either laughing or in heated debate constantly. He'd seen something in her that she had forgotten was there. A happy person. Someone who wasn't bound by guilt, by the horror of her past.

He understood loss. Simple as that.

Xander threw the stick for Thor again and leaned back on his elbows in the gra.s.s.

"We're going to have to go back down the mountain," he said.

"Why? I thought you didn't want to be around people. Isn't that why you're up here in the woods, running away from the world?"

"I'm up here waiting for the zombie apocalypse. I thought you knew."

"Ha, ha."

He grinned at her, and she felt the strangest twisting in her stomach.

"Ha back. Now, let's be accurate. I didn't say I was leaving civilization behind entirely. Besides, the kind of people who come to this place aren't the kind I like to avoid. They have respect for the land. Respect for our freedoms. There's a certain mentality to the woods, Sam. Out here, it's just you and your thoughts. Uninterrupted by phones and televisions and computers."

"You know, it strikes me I've never asked what do you do for money?"

He laughed. "As if money is important. I have savings. I'm not a really expensive man. I'm a guide, too. Word of mouth, only. You saw my workbench. Fly-fishing around here is some of the best in the mid-Atlantic region. I have a P.O. Box down in Frostburg. Once a month, I go down there with my calendar, get the mail, drink some coffee at this great little diner and set things up. That's what I was thinking. We could go eat some greasy food and I can check my mail."

"But they can't call you. What if they have to cancel?"

He gave her an amused smile. "Then I go fishing without them. I figure if it's important enough to them, they'll make the effort to be here. If not...it's their loss, not mine. The world doesn't end."

"How do you get the news?"

"Forest rangers, and the people who come to fish. Though, thankfully, it's not loaded down with the kind of superficial bubblegum c.r.a.p you probably deal with on a daily basis. I just want to know if things blow up. That's all."

She swung a few more times. Xander was a good one for silence. She liked that she didn't have to talk all the time.

"It sounds lonely."

"No. Alone, yes. But I like to be alone. I like my privacy. I don't want a bunch of people scurrying around, telling me what to do. I did my time. Literally. Peace, quiet and alone-that's my idea of heaven. Toss in a book, my music, Thor and a beer or two, and I couldn't be happier."

"What about marriage? Children? Haven't you ever wanted that?"

"Wow, aren't we getting personal here." But he smiled at her, a c.o.c.ksure grin, and she felt that funny thing in her stomach again, what she'd been feeling for the past several days around him.

"Sorry. I'm just trying to understand."

"But you do, don't you? You've wanted this, too. You've been alone for the past two years, right?"

She paused for a minute, then set her head back against the hammock and stared at the clouds.

"Alone, yes. But unlike you, I've been lonely. Very, very lonely."

"You don't have to be alone anymore, Sam. I can make room for you here. You belong. Even Thor loves you."

The dog loved her. That fit. She wasn't deserving of much else.

She swung in silence for a few more minutes. "It's my fault they're dead."

Xander came over to her, pulled her upright. He sat down next to her and put his hand under her chin. It was as close as he'd gotten to her since that first night she'd arrived at his doorstep, and he'd hugged her softly, like she was a burn victim. He'd been respecting her boundaries without even having to be asked.

"Oh, Sam. Haven't you realized by now that unless you take the life by your own hand, physically strip the body of its ability to live by your own hand, you aren't responsible for the death?"

"Xander, that's not true. It was my actions that put Simon in danger. My selfishness. My sense of self-importance. I should have been with them. I put the dead before the living. I've always done that. It's what I do. You need to know that."

"Tell me what happened. I'll tell you if you're responsible or not."

"No."

"Sam. Have you talked to anyone about this? Really? Do you think I'm going to think less of you? Think about the past few weeks. I've admitted that I was complicit in covering up the death of one of my team members. I lied to the government, I lied to my commanding officer, I lied to the JAG corp. I deserted every code I believed in. The very code that kept me safe, and I committed the ultimate sacrilege toward it. Don't you see? I'm in my own personal self-exile, living alone, refusing myself the comfort I could have by letting go of my burden? Until now. Until you came parading into my camp and demanded the truth. And I gave it to you. Sam, won't you do the same? Won't you allow yourself that small comfort?"

"I thought you said that you were only responsible for a death if you committed it by your own hand?"

He just looked at her.

"You didn't kill King. Culpepper did."

"Maybe. If he doesn't wake up, we might never know for sure. But I was right there. I should have known what was going down. I could have saved him. All of them. So yes, I feel like it was as much my finger on that trigger as his."

"Xander, you can't have it both ways."

He looked her in the eyes, made her acknowledge him.

"Can't I? I'm a man, Sam. I've forsworn all that I swore to uphold. You're different. You didn't drown Simon and the twins any more than I did. That isn't enough for you, though, is it? You want to feel responsible. That way you can avoid moving on. All because you made a choice. The universe isn't kind, Sam. It's indifferent. You can't punish yourself because of bad timing."

She was crying. Again. She hadn't cried for nearly two years, then the second she got to D.C., she'd turned into a f.u.c.king puddle.

Xander didn't say a word. He sat back in the hammock and watched her, wary and hungry, like a wolf deciding its victim's fate, then came to some sort of conclusion. Even with the raw grief tearing her body apart, she could sense the change in his body, in his posture, then felt his arms go around her. He put her head against his chest and didn't say a word, just held her, let her cry.

She had no idea how long they stayed there. Eventually the tears stopped, and she started to talk. It got dark. Xander built up the fire. The flames warmed her feet, and Xander warmed the rest of her. He listened patiently, never interrupting, letting her tell the story. And finally, at the end, he cried with her.

Nashville, Tennessee.

Dr. Samantha Owens Loughley.

May 1, 2010.

Sam was in the middle of a tricky dissection of an aortic rupture when the morgue phone began to ring. Her a.s.sistant, Stuart Charisse, answered for her.

"Dr. Loughley? It's Kris, she says your husband's on the phone."

"Finally. Thanks, Stuart. Can you put it on speaker for me? I don't want to lose my place here."

"Like that could happen," he said with a smile, then clicked the b.u.t.ton. A small fog of static filled the room. Good luck for her she was at the station closest to the phone.

"Hi, Simon. What's up?"

"Hey, are you guys keeping an eye on things?"

"The only thing I've got my eye on is a serious buildup of plaque. Why, what's happening? Is it getting worse?"

The rain had started the day before, sheets of it, thrumming incessantly. Nashville had already gotten eight inches in twelve hours, and the panic was setting in. Simon had suggested she not go into Forensic Medical, but they were understaffed, and behind, so far behind. If things got as bad as the weather forecasters expected, she would be on duty for the next few days. They were saying this was a hundred-year flood. A flood of epic proportions. Memphis had gotten twelve inches the day before, and the rainfall totals for Nashville were expected to be even higher. For a city that had a large river running through its downtown, and tributaries spreading through the suburbs, that could spell disaster.

"It's getting much worse." She could hear a strange tone in Simon's voice. Her husband was a scientist, a rational man. Nothing rattled him. Even the miscarriage she'd suffered several months earlier didn't shake him. His ability to move on had actually caused major friction between them-she thought they might split up over it. He wanted her to move on and try for another baby. She couldn't face it again so soon. She didn't know if she'd ever be able to face the idea of getting pregnant again.

Eventually they found a happy medium-not talking about it. It had saved their marriage, at least temporarily.

"Simon, hold on, just one second."

She made the final slice and laid bare the culprit, a large piece of calcified plaque that had caused the aortic rupture. Now she could stop for a moment.

She slipped off her gloves and went to the phone.