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The airport is crowded when Nancy arrives, bustling in all directions with eager-eyed travelers and bouncing children scurrying towards vacation adventures. Nancy tries her hardest to ignore them, but even in her sleep-deprived state, her mind still seizes on all the little details that play out like a pantomime before her. The little girl from two rows back is still crying loudly in her mother's arms, babbling words that her parents can't begin to decipher. But Nancy knows why the girl is upset. The evidence is still in her older brother's grasp — a stolen pink teddy bear, taken from the girl somewhere over Ohio.
Nancy moves mechanically, clearing customs in a breeze. "Welcome home," the agent says, when he slips her passport back into her hand, and Nancy can only manage a weak smile in return.
Home.
She's among the first from the flight to reach baggage claim, and as she watches the carousel spin and spin and spin, she surrenders to her insatiable sleuthing instincts. It's easier, she thinks, to focus on some irrelevant puzzle right now. Some silly little distraction, to keep her mind from wandering to where it really wants to go...to old piano notes and buried secrets.
And so she occupies herself with watching the emerging luggage, and she's not at all surprised when the businessman a few feet away picks up the sleek black Samsonite roller suitcase. Or when the women in the Birkenstocks selects the battered old floral bag swimming in luggage tags. Or when the family descends on the little pink Disney princess duffle.
Nancy knows precisely which bag is going to precisely which passenger before they're all selected. Of course she does. She sees all the signs, the clues, the tells. She latches onto them like a lifeline.
She's almost disappointed when her own bag comes sliding out into view. She's not ready, she thinks, for this to be over.
But her mother's voice echoes in the back of Nancy's mind. Life doesn't wait for you to be ready. So Nancy forges ahead, suitcase in hand, and each step brings her closer to the memories she can't escape. The memories she once thought she could outrun, but now she's left in the dust where the memories were settling — prickling like salt in a reopened wound.
The cold chill of a somber church. Cheeks streaked with tears in front of a closed casket. The soft smell of funeral lilies tugging at Nancy's nostrils. A calloused hand in hers, her father's voice in her ear...
"I'm right here, Nance. You've still got me..."
The long trek back to the house that feels so much emptier, so much hollower...a little girl learning to live without a mother.
"Nancy."
She looks up, swallowing back the lump in her throat. And there he is — her dad — standing in the middle of the arrivals room, looking more exhausted than she's ever seen him. In a matter of seconds, he's in front of her, folding her carefully into trembling arms. "Nancy," he repeats, and she can feel the heaviness of his relief in both of those syllables.
Nancy lifts herself up, toes pressing firmly into the unforgiving floor below as she rests her chin on her father's shoulder. It's only then that she notices that he didn't come here alone. Ned stands a few paces behind him — looking every bit as tired and every bit as relieved as her dad does. She meets his eyes, and feels a cascading sense of warmth ripple through her — her heart skipping a little at the unfathomably deep wells of tenderness and affection she sees there.
And just like he always does, Ned seems to know exactly what Nancy needs in that moment. He steps closer, hand ghosting over the small of her back as he reaches down to gently pry her suitcase out of her hand. Her dad lets her go, just for a moment, and Ned slips his arm around her and bends down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head.
"I'll bring the car around," he says, gentle as a salty sea breeze. "Meet you two out front, okay?"
Nancy nods, grateful — as always — for his steadiness, his constant strength. "Thank you, Ned," she says, her own voice unexpectedly hoarse.
He squeezes her shoulder, kissing her head once more, and Nancy knows that he understands what she means. That she's not just thanking him for the suitcase, the car, the ride home...but for everything she can't bring to words in that moment. The unceasing support, the unflinching faith, the love that reverberates in every word they share, and every drop of silence that spills between them.
Her Ned. Her love. Her shining light in every storm.
He slips away to the airport parking lot, moving in that same, confident stride she's always admired. Ned Nickerson — the boy who never doubts, never runs, always believes.
Nancy looks up slowly, swallowing hard when her eyes settle on the creases lining her dad's face, the clouds of emotion hanging there in his eyes.
"Dad..." she says, and the word sounds somewhat garbled even to her own ears.
There's an unfamiliar feeling rising within her, a feeling she hasn't felt in many years. A feeling almost like...failure. Which is ridiculous, she knows. Insane. She cracked the case, she caught the culprit. But...
Her eyes begin to burn.
"I didn't find out," she says, just barely loud enough for her dad to hear. "I don't know who killed Mom."
Her dad's expression softens even further. He's blinking now, blinking away tears. "Nancy..."
"It was Revenant," she says. "They killed her, they caused the accident. But I don't know who specifically. I don't know—"
Her dad wraps his arms around her again, pulling her close into a tight hug. She breathes in shakily, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, and leans against him.
"You don't need to know, kiddo," he whispers to her. "We know everything we need to know about that day."
"Dad..."
"It's over, Nance. You're safe. That's what matters, okay? That's all that matters..."
The tears fall before Nancy can stop them, streaking down her face and into the tweed of her dad's jacket. It's been so long since she's done this...so long since she's been anything but strong, resolute, unshakable. But she can't hold it back any longer, can't fight the sadness that screams at her from all directions.
"I miss her, Dad," she chokes out. "I miss her so much."
"Me too, kiddo," he says soothingly. "Me too. Everyday."
Nancy shudders, hands clutching tightly at the back of his jacket. He's still whispering to her, smoothing her hair with one hand like he used to when she was little. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she thinks she should be angry with him, frustrated with him, for all the secrets he's held back over the years — everything he didn't let her know about the woman she misses the most.
But the anger doesn't come. The fire doesn't spark. And standing there in her father's arms, surrounded by the warmth of his ever-present guiding light, Nancy has never felt safer.
"I love you, Dad."
He pulls back carefully, lifting his hands up to brush away her lingering tears. "I love you too," he whispers. He lowers his hands to squeeze her shoulders, and Nancy takes a slow, steadying breath.
"C'mon, superstar," he says. "Let's go home."