Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MORGAN
Chance.
The thought hits without warning, a brutal impact to my chest that makes the world narrow to a single, unbearable realization.
Constance is missing.
Before anger can rise up from the depths, before a strategy settles into place, one truth cuts through everything else with startling, brutal clarity.
Her son cannot become collateral damage in a war he never chose.
There’s no delegation, no pause to consider alternatives, no warning call placed; I simply take my keys and walk out the door, already moving toward the only choice that makes sense.
The drive to the school feels longer than it should, every red light stretching thin across my nerves while my mind runs ahead of me, replaying the last conversation I had with her; the way she stood in my office handing me my coffee.
The stubborn lift of her chin when she argued with me.
I remember the warmth of her skin under my fingertips, the feel of her beneath me, and the memory twists into something dangerous because now I don’t know where she is, or who has their hands on her, or whether she is frightened.
I push the thought away before it can take root, and I lose my self-control.
The school office smells faintly of disinfectant and crayons when I walk in, the same scent that lingered the last time I came here.
Only now, there’s no hesitation when the receptionist looks up and recognizes me.
Her posture straightens immediately, relief flashing across her face as if my arrival confirms something unspoken.
“We were wondering if someone was coming to pick him up,” she says softly.
“Constance is held up so she sent me,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.
She nods and disappears through a side hallway, returning moments later with his backpack already slung over her arm.
Chance follows behind her slowly, smaller somehow than I remember, shoulders rounded, eyes searching until they land on me.
Dark curls fall into his eyes as he looks up at me, backpack nearly sliding off one shoulder.
“Mr. Morgan,” he says quietly.
Something in my chest tightens.
I crouch without thinking, bringing myself level with him. “Hey, Buddy. We’re going on a little field trip today, alright?”
His small face reflects in my vision, wide eyes studying my own blue ones as if he's searching for answers. He nods, the trust in that small motion settles into me like a promise I didn’t know I was making until now. I’m going to bring his mom back to him.
I’m going to get her back for both of us.
I thank the staff, sign whatever they put in front of me without reading it, and walk him out to the car. He climbs into the backseat silently, clutching his backpack to his chest. The engine starts and the city moves around us, but inside the car everything feels strangely quiet.
“Is my mom at work?” he asks after a minute.
I keep my eyes on the road. “She got busy, so I’m helping out.”
He accepts that answer without question, and the simplicity of his faith in me makes something ache behind my ribs.
“Hey Buddy, the night your mom went out, who watched you?” I ask.
“Mr. Bartholomew, he's our neighbor. I like him.”
“I have to get back to work to help your mom get home faster. Think you could show me where Mr. Bartholomew lives, and I’ll see if you can stay with him for a bit?”
“Sure.” He shrugs, and when we turn onto their street, he points to which house is Bartholomew’s.
I take him straight to the door and raise my hand to knock.
An older man opens the door before I even rap my knuckles against it, as if he’s been watching through the window. His gaze shifts from me to Chance and then back again, reading more than I say aloud.
“Hey Bbuddy.” He smiles at Chance. “Head on in and get the milk and cookies out, would ya?”
Chance smiles ear to ear and slips past us into the house. Mr. Bartholomew looks at me with an eyebrow raised.
“She’s missing,” I tell him plainly.
He exhales once, slow and heavy, then steps aside. “This have to do with you then? Cause that girl don’t have any enemies.”
“Yes, Sir,” I answer him honestly. “But I’m going to get her back. I just need someone to keep the boy safe.”
I automatically reach for my wallet, offering more than enough to cover the inconvenience, risk, and silence. He waves it off with a scowl that hits too close to Constance’s stubbornness for comfort.
“You bring her home,” he says. “The boy stays as long as he needs.”
Inside, Chance’s voice carries faintly down the hall, already distracted by the promise of milk and cookies, already settling into safety that I can’t give him myself, right now. The sound stops me for half a second, long enough for something tight to pull across my chest.
“I’ll see you soon, Kid,” I call into the house.
I turn before hesitation can root me in place and close the door behind me.
Then I go hunting.
Nocturne feels different when I return, quieter beneath the surface, like the building itself understands something is wrong. I head straight for Miles’ office and shut the door behind me before turning the room inside out.
Drawers come open hard enough to rattle their tracks, files scattering across the floor as I tear through them one by one. Contracts, expense reports, meaningless paperwork meant to look legitimate blur together beneath my hands.
I step back, scanning the office instead of the mess I’ve made, forcing myself to slow down. Miles was meticulous, but he was also predictable. He liked symmetry. Control. Nothing in this room ever sat out of place.
That’s when I see it.
The credenza behind his desk isn’t flush with the wall. Barely noticeable, just a fraction off, but enough that the shadow line along the baseboard breaks unevenly.
My jaw tightens.
I move toward it, grip the edge, and shove. The heavy wood scrapes across the floor with a harsh groan, revealing a recessed panel set into the wall behind it. I crouch, fingers tracing the seam before pulling it free.
The compartment behind it is empty.
That absence tells me more than evidence ever could.
Miles cleaned house before this started. He planned distance, delay, misdirection. He expected pursuit.
Good.
That means he is still thinking like a strategist instead of a desperate man. And strategy happens to be my strongest skill.
A knock sounds at the door.
“What?” I snap without looking up.
A woman steps inside, mid-level admin from HR if memory serves, hands twisting together as though she regrets being here already.
“Mr. Creed,” she says carefully.
“I’m busy. Unless the fucking building is on fire, get out.”
“Sir, I need to talk to you,” she murmurs.
I whip my head up and glare at her. “You have ten seconds.”
She swallows. “I heard you were looking for Mr. Hunt.”
I relax my glare and try to smooth my face so I don’t terrify this woman more than I already have. “I am. Why are you here?”
“Well… I wondered if you checked with Abi.”
The name means nothing to me: I don't think I know an Abi.
“Who the fuck is Abi,” I ask, “and why would I question her?”
“She was your secretary,” the woman says quickly. “The one Ms. Hale replaced. Mr. Hunt is the one who originally hired her for the position. I’ve seen them together after hours since she was let go. I believe they’re… involved.”
Everything inside me goes very still.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all.”
“You can go. Thank you.” I nod in her direction.
She leaves immediately, relief visible in her shoulders.
I walk back to my office without rushing, already opening my laptop, already accessing personnel records. My fingers move with practiced precision as I type the name.
Abi.
Her file appears on the screen, and for the first time since Constance vanished, I smile, because the scattered pieces finally begin to align.
The connections are there now, unmistakable once seen.
Leverage only works with proximity, and Miles never did anything without purpose, which means this was never random.
He chose carefully, selecting someone angry enough to help him without realizing they were being used.
I close the file and begin pulling connected records, cross-referencing addresses, payroll anomalies, expense reimbursements routed through secondary accounts. Patterns emerge quickly once I know where to look, subtle overlaps that point toward places meant to stay invisible.
My pulse steadies.
Miles thought he understood me, thought restraint meant weakness, and convinced himself that principles were something he could weaponize against me. What he failed to understand, what he never bothered to look closely enough to see, is something far more fundamental.
I built Nocturne for one purpose: to find people who disappear, to follow the trails others miss, and pull truth out of places designed to hide it. And I have never failed a recovery I personally led.
I stand, grabbing my jacket, already issuing orders through my phone as I head for the door.
“No one comes or goes from the building until I say so. Tell them I’ll pay them for their time and any childcare or other expenses it causes.
Freeze all accounts Miles Hunt touched or has access to.
I don’t care if they’re his, mine, or fucking Santa’s.
Lock them down.” I hang up with my head of building security and immediately dial my best tech guy.
“Fletcher, I need you to flag every property tied to Abi Pritchard within the last five years. I want traffic cams, utilities, and purchase histories running simultaneously. I want the list sent to me within the next thirty minutes.”
Outside, the air smells like rain and asphalt, the city humming, unaware that somewhere inside it a line has been crossed that cannot be undone.
Miles thought this would force my hand.
He has no idea what he started.
I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
I’m going to get her back.
And when I do, mercy will not be part of the conversation.