Chapter 9 - SHADOWS OF THE PAST
Despite the peace that had settled over Blackwood Manor, the final echoes of the past were not entirely silent.
One rainy evening, Gabriel arrived at the manor with a solemn look on his face. He found August and Mave in the library, where Mave was teaching August how to read the grain of different hard woods.
"Boss," Gabriel said quietly, stepping into the room.
"I'm not your boss anymore, Gabriel," August said, setting down a piece of raw mahogany. "Call me August."
Gabriel smiled faintly, but his expression quickly turned serious. "Sloan’s trial concluded today. She was sentenced to eight years for fraud and conspiracy. Trant received life without parole."
Mave took a quiet breath, looking at the floor. The shadows of that rain-soaked Tuesday at Bishop’s Row felt both a million miles away and terrifyingly close.
"And Deacon?" August asked quietly.
Gabriel hesitated. "Deacon came back to the city three days ago. He was broke, desperate. He tried to rob a liquor store on the South Side."
August’s jaw tightened slightly. "And?"
"The owner had a gun," Gabriel said softly. "Deacon didn't make it to the hospital."
The room fell into a heavy silence.
August walked over to the window, staring out at the rain hitting the glass. Deacon had served him for nine years. He had been a loyal soldier until greed and cruelty took hold of him. August had given him a second chance—had let him walk away alive—but Deacon had chosen to return to the mud.
Mave walked over to August’s side. She didn't say words of empty comfort. She simply slid her fingers into his heavy hand, intertwining her fingers with his.
August felt the warmth of her hand, solid and real, anchoring him to the present.
"I used to think people couldn't change," August said, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. "I thought once a man chose darkness, he was trapped in it forever."
"People can change, August," Mave said softly, squeezing his hand. "But they have to want to leave the dark. You wanted to leave. Deacon didn't."
August turned to look at her. The grief in his eyes was met with her quiet, unwavering strength.
"Gabriel," August said, turning back to his former lieutenant. "Ensure Deacon’s widow receives a pension from the foundation. Tell her it came from an old insurance policy."
Gabriel bowed his head, his eyes shining with respect. "Consider it done, August."
When Gabriel left, August pulled Mave closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, burying his face into the side of her neck.
Mave held him tightly, resting her chin on his shoulder.
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"It's over now, August," she whispered into his ear. "The war is over. The fire is out."
For the first time in twenty-two years—since the day his mother had died alone in Providence—August Farley let out a long, shuddering breath and let the past go.
