Chrissy took a deep breath before slowly releasing it. “Dorothy,” she started, jolting Jase. “I want to know how she’s doing. And the child? The girls could never tell me much, only bits and pieces—”

“Chris,” he said, interrupting her. “Why are you bringing this up?”

Irritation creased her features. “Because, Jason, I shot a woman, a pregnant woman. I could have killed her and that innocent baby, and I’ve lived with that fact every day, every year, since it happened. There’s nothing I regret more than what I did to her.”

He supposed that made sense; even so, he didn’t want to discuss Dorothy with Chrissy. But this wasn’t about him, and he owed Chrissy at least that much.

Shrugging, he said, “As far as I know, she’s doin’ good.”

“You don’t see her?” Chrissy asked. “At all?”

Feeling incredibly awkward discussing his longtime girlfriend with his wife, or ex-wife, even after all this time, Jase shook his head. “Not really. She comes into town sometimes, only to see Tegen or Eva. She never stays very long.”

“Not you,” Chrissy said. It wasn’t a question, but an observation.

“Not me,” Jase repeated. Even before her memories had returned to her, Dorothy had repeatedly refused any attempt he’d made to speak with her. And then, after Cage had gotten shot, when she’d threatened to kill him if he came near her again, he’d given up altogether.

“You lost everything,” Chrissy said.

He stared at her. She didn’t seem to be mocking him, she didn’t seem angry or bitter. In fact, much to his surprise, she appeared to have expected his answer.

“I lost everything,” he confirmed, then added quietly, “and because of me, so did you.”

This time, it was Chrissy who shook her head. “I still have my girls.”

Jase didn’t know how to respond to that other than to nod in agreement. It was the cold, hard truth. When it had all gone to shit, the girls had taken sides with their mother, barely acknowledging his existence even before they’d all left home. As much as it had stung, he hadn’t blamed them. He, more than anybody, hated what he’d done.

“For the longest time, I blamed you for everything,” she continued. “I hated you for lying to me, for betraying our marriage. Most of all, I hated you for destroying our family.

“But I’ve had a lot of time to think about . . . everything. And I’ve come to the realization that it wasn’t just your fault. The other women, Dorothy, I let that go on. I knew you weren’t happy, I’d always known, yet I chose to ignore it instead of dealing with it. It was only after I’d found out she was pregnant . . .” She trailed off, her eyes glistening with tears as she turned away from him.

“Chris,” he said softly. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” she insisted, sitting up straighter and wiping at her eyes. “I do. I need you to know how sorry I am. I asked Maribelle here for a reason, to give you some time together. I’d hoped . . .”

She swallowed hard before speaking again. “It’s almost Christmas, Jason, and I’d hoped that it being the holidays and seeing each other would help somehow.”

“The girls don’t need me,” he said, nearly choking over his words as he fought back a rising wave of intense emotion. Fucking hell, he was so sensitive lately. Hopefully it wasn’t an aging thing, because if it was, if he made it to sixty, he’d be a weepy fucking mess. Worse than a goddamn woman.

Chrissy reached across the table and surprising him, covered his left hand with hers. For a moment, he could only stare down at their hands, joined yet both without their wedding bands, and another wave of regret crashed through him.

“They do,” she whispered, squeezing her fingers over his. “And it’s your job to show them that.”

Jase turned to look outside the room, to where his daughter was standing. With her arms folded across her chest, her face a mask of impenetrable stone, she could have easily passed for one of the guards. One of the not-so-manly-looking guards.

“I’ll try,” he said, turning back to Chrissy.

She gave him a sad smile. “That’s all any of us can do now.”

**•

“You don’t need to walk me to my car,” Maribelle muttered, picking up her pace. “I’m not a little girl.”

Jase quickened his own stride through the prison parking lot. He didn’t want to fight with her, yet knew no matter what he said, it would turn into an argument. It always did. Scrubbing a calloused hand across his grizzled jaw, he tried to think of something to say to her that wouldn’t set her off.

“Pretty big storm headed this way,” he called out, “and you got a long drive ahead of you. You got snow tires on that piece of shit you’re drivin’?”

Maribelle stopped walking so abruptly, he nearly barreled right over her. Backing up a couple of feet, he braced himself for what he knew was coming.

“Stop it!” she hissed. “Just stop pretending you give a shit about me!”

Feeling both exasperated and exhausted, he lifted his hands in a gesture of peace.

“Belle,” he pleaded. “I’m just tryin’ to talk to you, is all. It’s Christmas Eve, baby. Throw your old man a bone, for shit’s sake.”

Maribelle’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “You’re right!” she shouted. “It’s Christmas Eve! And like usual I get to spend it without my mother!

“Whose fault is that?” she continued. “Whose fucking fault is that?”

Jase opened his mouth, not knowing what the hell he was going to say, but knowing that something, anything had to be said to defuse her anger before they had prison security descending upon them. But Maribelle beat him to it.

“Yours!” she screamed, her hands clenching into small fists. “You ruined our family, you ruined everything, and now you’re a sad old drunk who thinks just because it’s Christmastime you have some right to talk to me about snow tires? As if you even give a shit! All you’ve ever give a shit about is that fucking club and that whore of yours!”

“Keep your damn voice down!” he whispered harshly, “before you get slapped with cuffs and I’m bailin’ your ass outta jail.”

Even as angry as she looked, he could still see the sadness, the disappointment she was trying to hide from him. It reminded of him of her as a child, learning to ride her bike without the training wheels. Over and over again she’d fallen, skinning her shins and knees, but she had been a determined little girl. Even when he’d been ready to throw in the towel, not wanting to bring her home to her mother covered in blood, she’d grit her teeth, dry her eyes, and get back up on that damn bike. The memories only served to worsen his mood. He didn’t have nearly enough of them because he’d never been around.

“Belle,” he said, sighing heavily. “I took all that blame a long fuckin’ time ago and I never denied it, not fuckin’ once. But there ain’t nothin’ I can do about the past. All I got is right now, and I’m tryin’. I’ll never stop tryin’. You’re my daughter, my baby girl, and that shit means somethin’ to me. Always has.”

Maribelle continued to glare at him, seemingly unwavering in her resentment, except for the slight tremble of her bottom lip.

Seeing an opening, he took a step forward and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I know I’ve no right to ask you for a damn thing, not after everything I took from you and your sisters, but I’m askin’ anyways.”

Maribelle looked up and directly into his eyes. “And what exactly are you asking for?”

He stared down at her, into the mirror image of his wife twenty years ago, realizing for the first time that if he didn’t try to right this wrong, really try this time, his daughter’s eyes would continue to grow colder, losing their light the same way her mother’s had.

“I’m askin’ for Christmas,” he said. “I want you home for Christmas.”

In fact, he wanted all of his daughters home for Christmas, but the truth was that the twins took their cues from Maribelle. She had, along with Chrissy’s parents, taken over as their caretaker. Jase was persona non grata. But if he could get Maribelle home, the twins would undoubtedly follow suit.

Several long moments passed by in uncomfortable silence, during which it began to snow. Jase glanced up at the darkening sky, worrying about Maribelle’s long drive home, and while he was distracted, Maribelle slipped out from under his hands.

“I can’t,” she said as she quickly backed away. “I’m sorry . . .” She shook her head. “No, I’m not sorry, but I just . . . can’t.”

Then she turned and hurried off.

Jase remained where he was, watching as she fumbled with her car keys, waiting until she was safely inside the vehicle and halfway out of the parking lot before finally lowering his gaze.

“Back to the club,” he muttered. Because there was no way in hell he was going home to that empty house on Christmas Eve. There was no Christmas tree, no decorations, no presents to be wrapped, no turkey baking in the oven, no giggling coming from the kids’ rooms upstairs. There was nothing but four walls, dusty furniture, and a dirty floor.

Ever since his two youngest had left home, he’d been at the club more than ever, unable to stomach the ever-present emptiness that had not only taken root inside his house, but inside him as well.

If only he’d realized sooner that it wasn’t the house, four walls and a roof, that made a home. It was who had lived inside those four walls, his wife and daughters, the true support beams of the structure. Without them the roof had caved in, the walls had collapsed, and the foundation had crumbled away.

And as he headed for his truck, he found himself wishing for the millionth time since Dorothy had been shot, that Cox hadn’t wrestled the gun from his hand.