The Divorcee Murder Club

Epilogue ~ Part Two

              The afternoon breeze is soothing against my arms as we sit around a long table, feasting outside. Jackson and Alma’s kids chase each other around the yard while Evan’s daughters take selfies for their social media, giggling between snapshots. My mom and Steve chat with Ana and her boyfriend, David, while I stroke Tito’s fluffy fur as he naps on my lap. The rambunctious little poodle has grown fond of me. I must admit he’s adorable when he’s not biting my ankles. 

I sigh, completely content and in love with the family Angie and I fused.

Someone needs to pinch me. 

It’s surreal as I gaze at everyone. They’re here to support me and welcome me home in the same place where I sold my soul—where I lost sight of who I was. It took a while for my mom and Steve to accept that I would take over a corrupt empire, but they get it now. I run things differently. I hear people out, I’m fair in my decisions, I don’t treat anyone like they’re beneath me or make threats to have their respect, and I make donations to different causes. 

So, there is good in what I do.

But my mom still refuses to move in here with us. In fact, they reject any financial aid I offer, and I understand.

“Did you tell him?” Alma asks, which tugs my attention to her.

“Tell me what?”

Jackson sets his knife and fork down and gives her a stern look. “I was going to wait until we were done eating.”

“Jacks,” I laugh. “I’ve spent the last eight years in San Quintin. I can handle whatever you’ve gotta tell me.” 

“Fine,” he sighs and sits back in his chair. “No one has heard from or about Chloe since she exited prison a few months ago. It’s like she vanished.”

“And?” I laugh.

“And we thought you’d want to know.” He shrugs.

“I want to find her and beat her ass,” Alma grumbles.

“Babe…” Jackson gives her another stern look.

“What? I hate her. I hate what she did. Fucking rat-faced bitch.”

“Pregnant women shouldn’t talk like that,” I tease. 

“But you can find her with your connections, right?” Alma says.

“Yeah, but I don’t care to.”

“What!?” She shifts her entire body to face me. “Chloe doesn’t deserve to be out there living her life, Miguel. Not after everything she did to all of us.” 

“Chloe did her time.” I shrug. “And from what I heard, she had it rough in there. Inmates don’t like snitches. She got jumped a bunch of times, and on a few occasions, she was in the infirmary for several days. So, wherever she is, I doubt she’s living a peaceful life. She probably skipped town because she heard I was getting out early and thinks I’ll go after her, but I have no desire to.”

“I guess prison made you soft…” Alma mutters.

“Not soft,” Evan chimes in. “A change in perspective. If you want to find Chloe and kick her ass, no one is stopping you.”

Alma is about to fire back, but Jackson squeezes her hand and shakes his head. She closes her mouth, picks up her utensils, and saws into the prime rib on her plate like it's Chloe's face. Some things never change. Or rather, some people never change. Maybe one day, Alma will find the peace she needs, but it won’t be through me. My gaze drifts to Angie. She’s standing at the patio's edge, watching Daisy play with the kids. My wife looks like a goddess, with her curly hair pinned in an updo and loose tendrils catching the sunlight. I miss her already, so I go to her and weave my arms around her, my chin resting on the top of her head.