Chapter 5
Izzy padded through her condo in bare feet, double-checking locks for the third time.
The ceramic tiles were cool against her skin, grounding her in the present even as her mind raced ahead to every terrible possibility.
Through the living room window, Hope Landing's streetlights cast amber pools on the fresh snow, peaceful and deceptively safe.
Cálmate, chica, she told herself, forcing her hands to unclench. You've rebuilt carburetors with more complicated problems than Andrew.
She paused outside Chantal's door, easing it open just enough to peek inside.
Her daughter lay sprawled across her princess sheets, one arm flung over her stuffed unicorn, dark hair fanned across the pillow like spilled ink.
The nightlight painted soft shadows on walls covered with Chantal's artwork—butterflies and rainbows and a crayon family portrait where Mommy's smile was bigger than her head.
Izzy's chest tightened with fierce love. Six years old and already asking why she didn't have a daddy like Michaela at church. What was she supposed to say? Your father's a disaster who chose tequila over tucking you in?
She pulled the door closed and returned to her own room, where the cheerful papel picado banners her mother had hung mocked her anxiety. The room smelled like the lavender sachets Luz tucked everywhere, insisting they promoted restful sleep. Fat chance of that tonight.
Her phone buzzed just as she pulled back her quilt. Zara's name on the screen sent relief flooding through her—her team hadn't forgotten her while chasing avalanches in Alaska.
Zara: Got intel on your problem.
Then, before she could even process that:
Zara: You're not gonna like it. Your wreck of an ex is in Hope Landing. At local motel just outside town. Stay safe.
The phone slipped from her suddenly numb fingers, clattering against the nightstand. Her chest squeezed tight, lungs forgetting how to work properly.
No. No, no, no.
She sank onto the bed, gripping the phone tight. The Wagon Wheel Motel. She knew exactly where that was—could picture its faded neon sign, the cracked parking lot where truckers caught a few hours' sleep. Twenty minutes from her home. Twenty minutes from Chantal.
Breathe, idiota. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
She forced herself up, pacing to the window. Her reflection stared back—wide eyes, sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder, looking nothing like the competent mechanic who could tear down a turbine engine blindfolded.
Her gaze landed on the photo atop her dresser—Chantal on her third birthday, cake frosting on her nose, laughing at something Kenji had said. The frame was decorated with popsicle sticks and glitter, a Mother's Day masterpiece.
You’re not alone.
The thought came fierce and sudden, cutting through the panic.
She had her team—always had. And now she had the whole Knight Tactical crew.
Admiral Knight alone would incinerate Andrew without breaking into a sweat.
And she had her Mountain Angel community: Martha and Bill and the rest of the crew.
She had her church family, Pastor Dan and his wife who'd taught her what real love looked like.
He had no idea what he was walking into. This was HER town. HER people.
This is going to be okay.
She moved to her closet, pushing aside work coveralls to reach the lockbox on the top shelf.
Just checking. The restraining order was still there, along with the custody agreement that gave her sole custody.
Andrew had signed without blinking, too eager to escape to Florida without child support obligations.
So why was he back? What could he possibly want after six years of occasional texts and all of three calls to his daughter?
Back in bed, Izzy stared at the ceiling, knowing sleep was impossible but trying anyway. Tomorrow she'd need to be sharp—for Chantal, for her work, for whatever trouble her ex planned to cause.
She closed her eyes, willing her body to rest even if her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
The nightmares came anyway, as she'd known they would.
Andrew's mocking laugh echoing off bare apartment walls.
Chantal as a newborn, screaming while Izzy searched frantically for formula money in couch cushions.
His slurred voice: No one's gonna want you with a brat. You're lucky I stayed this long.
She jerked awake, sheets damp with sweat, just as her phone shrilled in the darkness. The clock read 02:17.
Martha's name on the screen had Izzy instantly alert, mechanic instincts overriding everything else.
She picked up. "What's wrong?"
"Got trouble, girl." Martha's tone was terse. "Med evac flight, five minutes after takeoff from the patient’s location. Pilot's reporting control issues, fighting to maintain altitude."
The Bell 407. The one she'd just inspected that afternoon, every line perfect, every connection secure.
"What kind of control issues?"
"Can't get clear details, but sounds like servo problems from what he's describing. They're gonna try for the ski resort parking lot—closest flat ground they can reach."
Izzy was already out of bed, yanking on jeans with one hand. "I'll meet you there."
"Already in my truck. And Izzy? Don't blame yourself. You didn't miss anything."
But Izzy was already noting every inspection point, every connection she'd checked. The servo actuator had been perfect—she'd stake her reputation on it.
She scrawled a quick note for her mother.
Emergency at Mountain Angel, back later.
She propped it by the coffee maker then slipped into Chantal's room one more time. Her daughter had rolled onto her stomach, unicorn tucked under one arm, completely oblivious to the chaos in their world.
Deal with one crisis at a time, chica, Izzy told herself, grabbing her mechanic's bag and heading for the door. That's how you survive.
She headed for the front door, but quickly pivoted. What if Andrew acted before she got back home? She penned an addition to the note. It would scare Luz, but better her mother be prepared.
Mamá - Andrew's in town (Wagon Wheel Motel). Don’t answer the door. If he shows up, call me.(I don’t think he will. Just want you to be aware.) I’ll be back to drive Chantal to school. Call if you need me. Te quiero.
The winter air bit at her face as she jogged to her truck, tools rattling in the bag over her shoulder. The emergency scanner crackled to life as she pulled out, official voices discussing wind conditions and emergency landing protocols.
Andrew would have to wait. Right now, someone's life might depend on her figuring out why a perfectly maintained helicopter was falling out of the sky.