Melodys Silence The Conclusion

It's honestly taking more energy than I'd like not to fire off a barrage of snarky remarks--but hey, I don't believe in wasting good energy on bad decisions. So instead, I'll let Travis Parker say a few words about this story:

"Look, I didn't ask to star in thousands words of romantic chaos and emotional trauma. But the guy who writes me--yeah, the one currently pacing and muttering about certain few who questioned his work--he poured his heart into Melody's Silence. He didn't phone it in. He bled into that story. So if you're wondering why you're not getting another 'Travis and Steve the Judgmental Raccoon Save the World' installment this week? Blame the people who made him question whether his best work was worth the grief. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm late for therapy and a coffee date with Maggie. Steve's probably judging me for both."

_______________________________________

From Part 03.

I nodded. "And if they think Alex can lead them to it, they won't stop coming."

Marisha didn't say anything right away, but the way her hands curled into fists told me she was thinking the same thing I was. This wasn't just a hunt for the truth anymore.

It was a race.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. "We need to pay Walter Hobbs a visit."

And now Part 04

***************

Safe House

(POV: Alex)

Three weeks have passed since Tanglewood, and my shoulder still aches -- a dull, pulsing reminder that some wounds never quite close. The bullet's gone, but the weight of it lingers. The sling's more of a formality now, but every time I shift the wrong way, it's like the pain reaches back for me. It's not the kind that makes you scream. It's quieter. The kind that waits until the world goes still, then whispers that you'll never outrun it.

The Bureau stashed me here, in a safe house with no name. The walls are a muted gray, like they were designed to forget color ever existed. The air smells like stale coffee and disinfectant. The windows don't creak. Even the floorboards are silent, like they're part of the lie. It's a place where nothing lives, just exists. And somehow, that suits me.

I sleep in shifts, two hours at a time. The nightmares always find me, dragging fragments of the past into the dark. Melody's laughter. The snap of a gunshot. The way her smile fractured before it disappeared. And then the guilt. That part never leaves. Six years, and I still wake up with my hands gripping the sheets like I could've held on to her.

But then there's Marisha.

She comes when she can, slipping through the door like she belongs here. She brings updates, names, theories -- the pieces they're prying loose from the wreckage of this case. I listen. I ask questions I already know the answers to, just to keep her voice in the room a little longer.

She's relentless. Sharp. But when she thinks I'm not looking, there's something else in her eyes. Something I'm afraid to name. It's not pity. It's not obligation. It's like she sees past the headlines and the accusations -- like I'm more than a ghost dragging Melody's memory behind me. I don't know how to respond to that. So I don't. I just let it linger.

I tell myself it's nothing. Trauma bonding. The kind of connection that grows when two people survive the same fire and walk away with the same ash in their lungs. But I know better. I feel it in the way my pulse quickens when she leans against the doorframe, her gaze lingering.

"How's the shoulder?" she asked yesterday.

But I knew what she really meant.

Are you still breaking?

And maybe I was. But her hand brushed my arm as she turned to leave, and I swear -- for a moment -- the breaking stopped. Just for a heartbeat. Then she was gone, and the house folded back in on itself. The silence crawled over me, heavier than before.

Last night, I did something I haven't done in years. I sat at the piano. My fingers hovered over the keys like they were waiting for permission. The first note came hesitant, then another, until a fragile melody unraveled beneath my hands. But it wasn't Melody's song.

It was something else.

The notes were softer, slower -- like shadows chasing light. It carried no words, just the weight of what wasn't said. And it sounded like her. Marisha. Not in the music itself, but in the spaces between the notes. The pauses that held more than sound.

She's in the silence.

I stopped halfway through. My hands trembled against the keys, the weight of it all crashing down. For six years, I've been trapped in a soundless void, believing music had abandoned me. But now the silence is shifting. The melody is returning. And somehow, impossibly, it's carrying her name.

I don't know what comes next. The investigation is still circling, tightening. Dexter's right -- it'll get worse before it gets better. The weight of the conspiracy presses down like a storm, and I'm still standing in its eye. But for the first time in six years, I'm not reaching for the nearest escape.

I'm waiting.

For answers. For justice. Maybe even for something as reckless and impossible as hope.

And somewhere tangled in all that, I keep thinking about the way Marisha's hand lingered on mine. The warmth that stayed long after she was gone. She hasn't walked away. Not yet.

That has to mean something. Doesn't it?

***************

Boston FBI Field Office (Conference Room)

(POV: Dexter)

The moment Dorsett stepped into the room, I felt it--a shift. That stiff D.C. posture, the suit tailored within an inch of its life, the smugness of a man who'd never kicked in a door but made a career out of slamming them shut. The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees. Rourke offered him the usual Bureau handshake, but Marisha and I stayed seated. We weren't here for ceremony. We were here for a war that was already spilling out of the shadows.

Marisha didn't waste a second. She launched into the briefing before Dorsett even got his overpriced coat off. No small talk. No politicking. Just a straight shot of truth--the financial trail from Harmony Wells, the names buried in offshore accounts, the threads leading to federal judges and bullet-riddled crime scenes. She laid it out with the kind of precision that should've made the room hum with urgency. But when she got to the part about needing warrants, Dorsett raised one manicured brow like she'd just requested launch codes for a nuke.

"It's compelling," he said, with that dry, surgical tone D.C. bureaucrats use when they're about to gaslight you. "But it's unverified. No second witness. You're asking for a federal probe based on a theory and a thumb drive."

Marisha tensed. Not much--just a flicker--but I saw it. The fire behind her eyes. She opened her mouth--probably to hand him his spine--but I pressed a hand lightly on her arm. Not yet.

She recalibrated like a pro. "Then let's talk about the shootouts," she said, steady but sharp. "One at the storage facility. One at Tanglewood. Two tactical strikes, both timed to when we were closest to the data. These weren't meth-heads or gangbangers. This was clean-up."

Dorsett leaned forward, that predator calm in his eyes. "Were you identified as FBI during either incident?"

I saw where he was going. "No," I said.

Marisha followed, her voice steel-wrapped velvet. "Because I was dragging a civilian out of live gunfire. Not exactly the moment for introductions."

Dorsett nodded slowly, like a man taking notes he never planned to read. "Then from a legal standpoint, it's two civilians caught in unrelated violence. Local matters. Not federal."

My fists clenched under the table. The air thickened with restrained fury.

"We were targeted because we got close," I said, keeping my voice level but low. "Close enough to shake the pillars. And the moment we touched the rot, the bullets started flying."

Rourke tried to defuse it, raising a hand. "We still have active threads--"

But Dorsett was already rising. The decision had already been made. His exit was choreographed: suit buttoned, tone final.

"Boston PD has withdrawn their support. You're to turn over all evidence, all witness interviews, immediately. This is no longer a federal matter."

He didn't wait for a response. He didn't need one. He'd come in to shut the investigation down and walked out like he'd just finished vacuuming the carpet.

Marisha lunged for the file, but I caught her wrist.

"We're not done," I said, just loud enough for her to hear. "They want us boxed in. So we stop playing by their rules."

She didn't hesitate. Didn't even blink. That fire I'd seen earlier was back--and this time, it was locked on.

Rourke turned from the door with a look that told me everything: he knew how deep this went, and how high it climbed.

"They're not stonewalling us," he said, voice grim. "They're protecting someone. Someone who can reach the DOJ and flick a case off the board like lint."

Marisha's reply was immediate. "They want the thumb drive. And they want Alex."

I nodded. I'd been thinking the same thing since Dorsett opened his mouth.

"We give Boston PD the note," I said. "Just the note. It was found in city limits. But the drive?" I met her eyes. "That came from Tanglewood. Outside their jurisdiction. We hold it."

Rourke didn't argue. Just nodded."It'll buy you time. Not much. But enough to pivot."

He looked exhausted. Like a man fighting shadows in a room full of knives.

"I'll slow-walk the release on Alex," he added. "Medical evals, paperwork backlog--whatever I can wrap in red tape. A week. No more."

Marisha crossed her arms, already calculating next steps. "Then we chase the wire transfers. We burn down the trail before they can bury it."

I looked at the DOJ seal hanging on the wall, gleaming like some holy relic. And I felt the familiar burn rise--rage, purpose, resolve.

"If they want to call this a local matter," I said, jaw tight, "then we'll handle it like locals."

Quiet. Off the books. Precise.

"One week," I told Rourke. "That's all we need."

I didn't know if that was true. But I knew we'd either break this open or go down swinging.

Rourke didn't linger in the moment. He turned toward us, all business. "Any other leads?"

Marisha answered before he finished. "Walter Hobbs. He's connected to the firm. His name's all over the redacted files."

I let out a dry laugh. "Great. Lawyers. Always a coin flip between arrogant and oblivious."

Marisha gave me a look--half warning, half amusement. I leaned in, voice dropping.

"We pulled geo-data from the video Melody left. Full coordinates. Either she didn't know how to scrub it, or she wanted it found."

Rourke's brows rose. He didn't ask how. Smart. "Location?"

"Second property under the Harmony Wells trust," I said. "Coastal. Hidden behind three LLCs."

Marisha nodded. "If she hid anything else--it's there."

The air shifted. We all felt it. The line was tightening. The next move would either give us a breakthrough or get someone killed.

"Then what the hell are you still doing here?" Rourke snapped. "Go. And if Hobbs is as connected as he looks, assume he knows we're coming."

No more briefings. No more strategy. Just go.

Marisha grabbed her coat. I followed. My pulse thudded behind my ribs. This wasn't just another lead. This was a race--and we were already three steps behind.

"Lawyers and shell companies," I muttered. "This is starting to feel like a treasure hunt hosted by the Mafia."

Marisha didn't laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitched. That was enough.

I checked my watch. Rehearsed the plan. Then threw it out. Hobbs could be a king, a pawn, or the last witness we'd ever talk to.

Either way?

It was time to kick over the board.

***************

Safe House

(POV: Marisha)

Dexter and I sat at the small kitchen table in the safe house, files spread out like a broken map of the past week's chaos--Melody's note, the Harmony Wells ledger, and a half-decoded email trail that pointed at at least two more judges. The fluorescent light above buzzed like a nagging thought, and the air in the room felt tight, heavy with everything we hadn't said yet. I glanced at Alex--he was across from us, leaning forward, his good arm resting on the table, jaw clenched. He hadn't said much. Just listened. But I could see the tension building under his skin, the way his knee bounced beneath the table and his eyes kept flicking between the files like they were mocking him.

He was unraveling, just a little. The weight of it all--the truth, the danger, the silence after six years of being branded guilty--it was starting to crack through. I could see it in his breathing, how shallow it had become. Then he pushed a folder aside a little too hard, the papers scattering across the table. "None of this means anything if they get away with it," he muttered. His voice was sharp, tight. Before I even thought it through, I reached out and placed my hand over his. It was instinct, not strategy. A grounding move, like I'd done a hundred times in interrogation rooms to calm witnesses. But this time, it wasn't just professional. The contact hit me like a jolt. Warm. Real. I froze. Then pulled my hand back like I'd touched a live wire.

Dexter didn't miss it. His eyes flicked between us, then he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "I think that's enough briefing for now," he said, tone casual but firm. "Alex, why don't you take a walk?" Alex's jaw worked for a second like he might argue, but he didn't. He stood slowly, stiff from the sling but too restless to stay still. I started to rise, already halfway to my feet when Dexter cut in. "Stay." Just one word. Quiet. But it carried weight. I paused, hand still on the back of the chair. He turned to one of the agents near the door and said, "Go with him. Keep eyes on him, but give him space." The agent nodded and followed Alex out. The door clicked shut, leaving Dexter and me in the thick silence.

He didn't speak right away. Just looked at me with that patient, sharp-eyed stare that said he already knew the answer and was giving me the dignity to say it first. "What's going on, Marisha?" he asked, finally. "You and Brooks--you're getting close." His voice wasn't judgmental. Not yet. But it was heavy with warning. I swallowed hard, sat down again, and looked away. "I know," I admitted. "I've tried to keep it professional. I have. But it's getting harder." The words came low, quiet. "He's not what I expected. He's not just a victim. He's part of this. He's... real. Too real."

Dexter nodded slowly, his gaze not softening, but not hardening either. "You're on a razor's edge, Bax," he said. "And if you fall, we all go with you." I didn't argue. Because he was right. I could feel it--the line between compassion and compromise thinning every time I looked at Alex and remembered what it felt like when his hand gripped mine in the dirt. What scared me most wasn't that I might already be over that line. It was that I wasn't sure I wanted to step back.

***************

Safe House

(POV: Alex)

When I came back in from the walk, the room still held the tension I'd left behind. Marisha didn't look up right away, but I caught the flicker in her eyes when I crossed the threshold--relief, maybe, or something she didn't want to admit. Dexter didn't waste time. He pushed the folder forward like nothing had happened. "FBI visited Hobbs' home and office," he said, voice clipped. "Place was clean. Too clean. He's gone. His wife, too. Two sons, both in college--missing. No credit card activity. No flight logs. Cars still in the garage." He let that hang in the air for a beat like he was waiting for it to sink in.

I scoffed and dropped into the chair. "Well, that's comforting. Nothing says 'innocent family getaway' like a coordinated vanishing act." It came out sharper than I meant, the words still tinged with the residual static of anger. I felt frayed--like I'd spent too long being yanked between hope and horror. Dexter didn't react to the sarcasm. He just gave me a look, one I couldn't quite read, and let it pass. "Don't get discouraged," he said. "It means we're rattling someone. They're scrambling now." He tapped the corner of the tablet in front of him. "The video Melody left us--the second one? It was geotagged. Cape Cod."

That pulled me forward. "Cape Cod?" I echoed, already sifting through a hundred memories. Summer drives. Music festivals. Quiet little houses tucked behind dunes and trees. "She filmed it at a property owned by a shell LLC," Dexter continued. "Matches the GPS data. We traced it back far enough to confirm the shell was set up with Boston legal help, but beyond that? We're hitting a wall. Without DOJ support, we won't be able to compel financials or ownership disclosures. It's designed to stay buried." He glanced at Marisha, then back to me. "We're heading out there tomorrow. See what we can see."

I didn't hesitate. "I'm going too." The words came before I could second-guess them. Before I could think about safe house orders or caution or logic. I wasn't going to sit here while they chased the last thread Melody left behind. "You said it yourself--this was meant for me. She left it for me." Dexter didn't answer right away, and neither did Marisha. She looked like she wanted to say no, but something stopped her. Maybe she remembered the way I looked in that video. Or maybe she saw in my face what I wasn't saying: that I couldn't survive being left behind again.

Dexter finally leaned back, studying me. "You'll need clearance. And you'll do exactly what I say. No improvising. No wandering off." I nodded. "Whatever it takes." He didn't push further. Just grabbed the folder and slid it back toward his bag. "Then get some rest. It's a long drive. And if there's something at that house..." His voice trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence. We all felt it. If Melody left one last piece behind, it wasn't just a clue. It was a truth someone didn't want us to find. And tomorrow, we were going to dig it up.

***************

On the Road to Cape Cod

(POV: Alex)

The road to Cape Cod was quiet, the kind of quiet that filled the space between people when there's too much to say. Dexter sat up front, passenger seat, flipping through the latest intel on his tablet, muttering updates to himself. Marisha was behind the wheel, focused but calm, her hands steady at ten and two like she was keeping the weight of the world in the lines. I sat in the back, leaning against the window, watching trees blur past in streaks of late-morning sun. No music. No chatter. Just the low hum of the tires on the asphalt and the occasional flick of her eyes in the rearview mirror--stealing glances when she thought I wasn't looking.

I wasn't sleeping, but I kept my eyes closed. Because every time I blinked, I saw her. Not Melody--though she was never far--but Marisha. It had happened the night before, in the fragile hours between sleep and pain. I'd dreamt of her. Not as an agent, not even as the woman who saved my life, but just her--laughing. Her eyes catching mine like they were anchoring me. Her skin against mine in a way that made me feel something I hadn't felt since before everything fell apart. Not guilt. Not grief. Hope. And it terrified me.

Tanglewood came back to me then, sharp and unrelenting. The stage. The chaos. The heat of the gunfire and the weight of her next to me in the pit. I didn't think--I just moved. Pushed her down, took the bullet meant for her. I hadn't stopped to wonder why. Until now. And maybe it wasn't just adrenaline or instinct. Maybe, deep down, something in me already knew what I couldn't say aloud. That she mattered. That she had already found a place inside the space I'd been saving for someone else.

But it wasn't that simple. It couldn't be. Melody was still with me--in my breath, in my guilt, in every unanswered question I carried like a shadow. And until I had those answers--until I knew who took her, why she vanished, and what she'd tried so hard to protect--I couldn't ask my heart for permission to move forward. Not yet. Not when the weight of the past still pulled at my ribs like a tide I hadn't escaped.