I force down the uncomfortable lump in my throat and breathe her in—the softness of her, the way her hair tickles my cheek, her delicate strength—and, for the first time since the accident, the unbearable weight of guilt eases gently off my shoulders.

“My fucking pleasure, Captain,” I manage finally.

She chuckles, pulling away and taking her notebook with her. She doesn’t look at it, though. Only me. Her sweet, adoring smile becomes my new mission.

“You really are something, Tripp Grady Tripp.”

“Yeah, but what? That’s the question.” I turn and open the door for her. “Ready?”

She climbs in, and I quickly follow on the driver’s side, lest the idiot realize what’s happened and chase us down in the parking lot. While I’d love a confrontation with Ashehole, I don’t want Marina suffering anymore. She’s had enough for one day.

We drive silently like she’s digesting what just happened, hopefully finding peace about it. Closure, if there’s such a thing. She’s not upset like she was when she exited the building. Instead, she beams, watches the world pass by her window, and occasionally taps her fingers on the binder as if reminding herself that it’s still there.

When we reach Monkey Junction, I pull into the Staples parking lot. The Beast rolls to a squeaking stop in the closest space I can get, and I switch off the purring engine.

“Short on office supplies?” she asks.

“We’re not here for me.” I turn toward her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to go in there. You’ll find a new notebook, paper, pens, markers, stickers, whatever your organizing heart wants. My treat.”

Her lips part like she wants to argue.

“Marina, please.” I motion to her worn and rather overfull Trapper Keeper. “This belongs to you, and I’m glad you got it back. But Sunny’s is over. A new store needs a new notebook. Don’t you think?”

Her pink lips curve into a resigned grin as she takes a deep breath. “Sunny’s is over,” she repeats, wanting it to sink in.

She roams the aisles aimlessly at first, contemplating something and putting it back on repeat.

“How’d you get the notebook?” she asks, playing with pens.

“It’s a grocery store. Not Fort Knox. I found his office. It was right there on his desk. His door wasn’t even locked.” She nods listlessly, still not dropping anything into the basket I’m carrying.

Watching her light up when we walked into the new Sunny’s, her passion for her work became abundantly clear. It’s not an act she puts on. She genuinely enjoys what she does. I even saw hints of it when we toured the G&G. That shit heap didn’t turn her off; it fucking inspired her.