Chapter 43
Nathan
An envelope sits on the counter. Plain. Slightly bent at the corners.
My name is written in her handwriting.
I stare at it like it might explode. Like maybe it already has.
I haven’t seen Ella since the night I told her to leave, since I pushed away the only beautiful yet cruel thing I’d let into my world in a very long time.
My hand hovers above the envelope. Then lowers.
I open it.
Silence.
Just the sound of paper unfolding.
A photo slips free.
It lands face up.
A tire swing in a pleasant-looking backyard.
And next to the swing, Ella, one arm outstretched selfie-style, cuddling a little girl with mismatched eyes.
Brown and blue.
My entire body goes still.
My knees give.
I drop hard to the floor, one hand clutching the photo like it might not be real.
My breath catches in my throat. It comes out shallow. Panicked.
“Ivy…” Her name breaks from me, barely a whisper, but it rips everything open.
Tears blur my vision before I even realize they’re falling. Not the kind of crying people see—the kind that breaks from the center of your chest, the kind that makes you feel like you’re drowning even when your lungs are full of oxygen.
I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking.
“Taylor, get to the address I just sent you. Call the police. It’s her. I swear to God…it’s her.”
The world leaps into motion without my permission.
Keys in my hand. Door. Hallway. Elevator. Car.
I don’t remember any of it.
I’m driving.
I know I’m driving because the road is moving and the city is blurring past, and my hands are locked so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles are white and aching.
The photo is on the passenger seat.
Face up.
Like she’s watching me.
Like she’s reminding me this is real.
Like she’s daring me to believe it.
Every red light feels personal.
Every slow car feels like an insult.
I want to scream at all of them: My daughter is alive! Get out of my way!
Three years.
Three years of imagining her in the ground.
Three years of imagining her cold.
Three years of imagining her calling for me and not being there.
My heartbeat stumbles so hard it knocks the air out of me.
What if she doesn’t remember me?
The thought hits like a punch.
She was little. So little. Four years old. She might remember my voice. My face. Or she might not.
What if I’m a stranger to her?
What if she’s afraid of me?
What if she’s been taught to be afraid of me?
My foot presses harder on the gas.
What if she’s hurt?
What if she’s sick?
What if she’s been—
No. Don’t go there.
My mind goes there anyway.
What if she flinches when I touch her?
What if she cries?
What if she learned new rules for surviving in a world I wasn’t there to protect her from?
The road curves. I don’t remember taking the turn.
What if she hates me?
The thought nearly makes me miss a light.
What if she thinks I didn’t look for her?
What if she thinks I gave up?
“I didn’t,” I say out loud to the empty car. My voice cracks. “I didn’t. I never did.”
I searched. I broke myself searching. I died and kept going.
I grip the wheel harder.
What if she’s not okay? What if this is just another mistake? Another cruel coincidence? Another little girl with the wrong eyes and the wrong smile and the wrong—
My chest seizes. I glance at the photo again. It’s her. It is her. I would know her anywhere.
The house numbers blur as I get closer.
My heart is trying to escape my ribs. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see her.
Do I run?
Do I fall?
Do I touch her?
Do I wait for permission?
Do I say her name?
What if she doesn’t answer?
God.
What if she calls someone else “Dad”? The thought nearly makes me pull over. I force myself to breathe.
In. Out.
In. Out.
You can fall apart later. You can die later. You can break later. Get there. Just get there.
I turn onto the long driveway attached to a farmhouse.
This is it.
My pulse is in my ears.
My vision sharpens and narrows, and everything feels unreal, like I’m underwater or dreaming or about to wake up screaming.
Police cars. Two of them. Parked outside the house.
My heart leaps into my throat. Hope detonates in my chest so violently, it hurts.
They’re here. They found her.
She’s here.
I barely remember stopping the car. Barely remember getting out. My legs feel like they might give.
I look at the house. The windows are dark. The porch is empty. The door is closed. Locked. No movement. No sound.
No little girl.
No Ivy.
Nothing.
The hope collapses so fast, it feels like falling down an elevator shaft.
“Where is she?” I whisper.
An officer steps toward me. Says my name.
I don’t hear him.
“Where is she?” I say again, louder now. “She’s here. She has to be here.”
They tell me the house looks empty. They tell me there’s no one inside. They tell me they’re searching. They tell me they’re expanding the radius.
They tell me to wait.
Wait.
I look at the door like she might open it. Like she might come running out. Like I might hear her voice. Nothing.
My knees buckle. “I’m not leaving,” I say.
No one tells me to.
I sit down on the front step. Right there. Like a guard dog. Like a statue.
Like a man who has already lost everything once and will not survive losing it again.
If she comes back, I will be here. If she walks through that door, I will be here. If she needs me—even for one second—I will be here. I stare at the empty door and hold the photo in my hands as if it were a prayer.
And I wait.