**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 17: The Heir's Shadow**
Willow Creek, California
November 12, 2018
The bungalow looked different now.
Fresh paint on the exterior—soft gray with white trim. New porch railing Mark had built on a slow weekend. A small wooden sign beside the front door, hand-carved by one of the high-school kids Alex had started training in basic self-defense: THORNE RESIDENCE. No crest. No grandeur. Just the name.
Inside, the living room still carried faint scars—patched drywall where bullets had punched through, new flooring over the old bloodstains—but the space felt lived-in. A worn leather couch. Bookshelves half-filled with military history, strategy, and a few dog-eared paperbacks Victoria had once recommended years ago. A framed photo on the mantel: Alex and Charlotte at the Fresno airport two weeks earlier, her arms around his neck, both smiling like the eight years between them had collapsed into nothing.
Charlotte had stayed ten days. They'd driven the back roads, visited the old rail spur where he used to walk alone, eaten at Millie's every morning. She'd cried when he showed her the spot on the porch where he'd waited for Victor's men. She'd hugged him tighter when he told her—quietly, without detail—about the nights he'd almost given up.
On her last morning she'd stood in the kitchen, coffee in hand, and said, "You're not going back to D.C., are you?"
Alex had shaken his head. "Not unless they drag me."
She'd smiled—small, sad, proud. "Then I'll come here. Every break. Every summer. Deal?"
"Deal."
Now the house was quiet again.
Alex sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, reviewing security camera feeds from the new system he'd installed around the property. Overkill, maybe. But habit died hard.
A soft knock at the front door.
He closed the laptop. Walked over. Opened it.
Lydia stood on the porch, coat collar turned up against the November chill, a thick manila envelope in her hand.
"Evening, Captain."
"Evening, Ms. Sullivan."
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation—old habit now. Hung her coat on the hook by the door. Handed him the envelope.
"Advance copy," she said. "The book. Came in yesterday. They rushed it because the story's still hot."
Alex turned the envelope over. Plain brown paper. No title visible yet. He opened it carefully.
The cover was simple: black background, a faint silhouette of a man standing against an orchard skyline at dusk. Title in white serif: *The Forgotten Heir: One Man's War on Corruption in Small-Town America*. Below it, smaller: *By Lydia Sullivan*.
He flipped to the first page.
Dedication:
To Alex Thorne—
who reminded us that justice doesn't always wear a badge.
He looked up.
She shrugged. "Figured you'd hate anything flowery. Kept it short."
Alex closed the book. Set it on the table.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." She walked to the kitchen, helped herself to a mug from the cabinet, poured coffee from the pot he always kept going. "But I wanted to. And the world needed to know the real version. Not the headlines. Not the made-for-TV movie they're already pitching."
He leaned against the counter. "They're making a movie?"
"Two studios bidding. They want you to consult. I told them you'd rather eat glass."
Alex gave a low chuckle. "Accurate."
They moved to the living room. Lydia sat on the couch. Alex took the armchair across from her. The silence between them was easy now—not charged, not awkward. Just two people who'd walked through fire together.
She sipped her coffee. "Charlotte texted me this morning. Said she's coming back for Christmas. Bringing your mom's old Christmas ornaments from storage."
Alex's throat tightened. "She told you that?"
"She tells me everything now. We're practically co-conspirators." Lydia set the mug down. "She also said your father called her last week. First time in years. Wanted to know if you were… okay."
Alex stared at the floor. "What'd she tell him?"
"That you're better than okay. That you built something real here. That he should call you himself if he wants to know more."
Alex exhaled slowly. "He won't."
"Maybe not." Lydia leaned forward. "But the door's open. That's new."
He met her eyes. "You think I should call him?"
"I think you should do whatever keeps the shadow from growing bigger." She paused. "You've carried enough."
Alex was quiet a long time.
Then: "I'll think about it."
She nodded. Stood. "That's all I ask."
She walked to the door, slipped her coat on.
At the threshold she turned.
"One more thing," she said. "The book's going to make you a target again. Not Victor's kind. The media kind. The true-crime-podcast kind. The 'where is he now' kind. You ready for that?"
Alex looked around the room—at the patched walls, the new bookshelves, the photo of him and Charlotte.
"I've been ready for worse."
Lydia smiled—small, knowing. "Good."
She stepped out onto the porch.
Alex followed her to the railing.
The night was cold and clear. Stars bright enough to read by.
Lydia paused at the steps.
"Alex."
He looked at her.
She hesitated—rare for her—then stepped closer.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For trusting me with the story. For not shutting me out."
He reached out, brushed a strand of red hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary.
"You're welcome," he said.
She rose on her toes. Kissed him—soft, brief, certain.
Then she pulled back, eyes searching his.
"See you tomorrow?" she asked.
"Tomorrow," he answered.
She walked down the path to her Jeep.
Alex watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
He stayed on the porch a while longer, breath fogging in the cold.
Then he went inside.
Locked the door.
Picked up the book from the table.
Opened it to the dedication page again.
Read it once more.
Closed it.
Set it beside the photo of him and Charlotte.
And for the first time in a very long time, the house didn't feel empty.
It felt like home.
(End of Chapter 17)