Chapter Thirty
Ava
I pace the cabin—back and forth, back and forth, wearing grooves into the wood because if I stop moving, I will shatter. I keep replaying Jax’s voice over and over, the last thing the storm allowed me to hear:
“You’re a mother first.”
He said it like a lifeline. He said it like a command. He said it like he expected me to actually obey.
I check the door again. I check the window again. I check Violet’s room again.
Empty. Silent. Wrong.
I try calling Jax again.
Nothing. No connection. No hope.
My fingers are shaking when I pull up Ranger Tom’s number.
ME: Violet is missing. Storm. Please help.
The message sits there, unmarked, unreceived. The little wheel spins, searching for service that has long since died.
I send it anyway.
Because doing nothing feels like drowning.
I pace to the kitchen, wipe snow-melt tears from my face, and try to breathe through the kind of fear that unthreads a person from the inside.
Be a mother first. Being a mother means not collapsing while your child is out there.
I grab my coat. My boots. My gloves.
The storm roars when I crack open the door like it’s laughing at me — like it’s delighted to have been given something precious to hunt.
I shove the door shut again so hard it rattles the frame.
Jax’s voice echoes through me: “If Violet comes back and you’re gone…”
And God help me—that stops me. That one detail, that one possibility, that one terrifying scenario of her stumbling back home beaten and frozen and alone while I’m out blindly running the wrong direction…
I can’t leave. Not yet.
My legs fold beneath me, and I sink into a chair, gripping the edge so hard the wood creaks.
What if she lost the path? What if she slipped? What if she can’t see her hands in front of her face—can’t even see the cabin light through the white?
What if she’s lying somewhere just beyond reach?
Not yet. Not now. Don’t think it.
I press my palms into my eyes, forcing myself to inhale.
One. Two. Three.
I count the breaths she took when she was born. Tiny ribs rising under my fingertips. Her first cry louder than her whole body.
“Come on, baby,” I whisper. “Please come back.”
Something thumps on the porch.
I jolt upright—lightning in my veins—and rush to the window—
Only to see a branch, ripped off a pine and slammed against the siding.
I sag forward, forehead hitting the glass.
“This storm,” I breathe, “is going to kill me before it kills anyone else.”
My phone buzzes.
I nearly drop it.
RANGER TOM: We’re mobilizing teams now. Stay inside. Keep your door unlocked. If she comes home, let us know immediately.
A strangled sound escapes my throat. A sob. A laugh. Something in between.
I reply with trembling thumbs: I’m an EMT. I can help.
Blue bubbles appear—then vanish.
Appear—then vanish.
Then:
Stay in the cabin. We need a central point. I’ll send someone to check in.
Stay in the cabin. Stay inside. Stay still.
Everyone keeps telling me to stay.
And every part of me is screaming to run.
Minutes pass—or hours—or seconds—I can’t tell anymore. I pace. I pray. I curse every snowflake in existence.
My training insists I shouldn’t let panic rule me.
My heart insists panic is the only thing keeping me upright.
I try calling Jax again. Try calling Ranger Tom again.
Nothing. Nothing.
The storm has decided silence is the only language that matters.
Finally—I snap.
I grab my keys. My coat. My flashlight.
“I have to try,” I say to no one.
But I can’t go into the woods alone. Visibility is near zero. If I lose the road, I’ll become the second rescue, not the rescuer.
So I make a choice:
The Ranger Station.
It’s close enough that I can reach it. It’s where every volunteer and search dog will be heading. It’s where someone will know something — anything — about where she might have gone.
It’s the only place I can do something.
I sigh a single prayer into my scarf, tasting salt and fear:
Please let him find her. Please let him bring her home. Please let this storm give her back.
Then I step into the white.
The wind nearly knocks me flat, claws at my coat, rips tears from my eyes — but I go anyway.
One step. Another. Toward the Ranger Station.
Toward answers.
Toward hope—or whatever shape hope has left.