Chapter 44
Nathan
Dusk bleeds into night without anyone announcing it. At some point, most of the police cars leave. One stays. Just one cruiser parked at the curb like a tired sentry.
The house sits there. Dark. Silent. Empty.
I’ve memorized every crack in the front steps—every shadow in the windows. Nothing changes.
I stand up for the tenth time and walk back to the front door. I try the knob again. Locked. I press my face close to the glass, cupping my hands, peering into the dark. Nothing.
“Mr. Reign,” one of the officers says, firm but not unkind. “You need to step away from the door.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” I say. “I’m just looking.”
“We don’t have permission to be here,” he says. “And we don’t have a warrant yet. If you’re going to wait, please just wait in your car.”
I turn slowly. My chest feels like it’s full of broken glass. “Wait in my car?” I repeat. “My daughter has been missing for three fucking years.”
He flinches a little but holds his ground. “I understand,” he says. “I really do. But I can’t let you break into this house.”
“Then what are you doing?” I snap. “Because it looks a hell of a lot like nothing.”
“We’re here to help you, Mr. Reign.” He studies me for a moment. Then, softer, he says, “Please. Go sit down. For your own sake.”
I stare at the house one more time. Then I turn and walk back to my car before I say something I can’t take back.
I sit behind the wheel. Grip it. Try to breathe. Fail.
The car is too quiet.
I watch the house. The dark windows. The closed door.
I tell myself they’re coming back. I tell myself they’re not. I tell myself I don’t know anything. My leg won’t stop bouncing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
What if she were never here? What if the photo was old? What if she’s already gone again? What if I missed her by minutes? By seconds?
Three years collapse into one unbearable moment.
Every birthday I missed.
Every bedtime story.
Every nightmare she had without me there.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe like I’m trying not to drown.
Please.
Please.
Please.
I don’t care how. I don’t care why. Just let me see her. Let me hold her. Let me know she’s alive.
Minutes crawl by. Maybe longer. Time doesn’t work right anymore.
Then—
Headlights suddenly flood my rearview mirror. Bright. Close. A car is pulling into the driveway.
My heart slams so hard I think I might pass out.
The cruiser’s lights flip on instantly. Doors open. Commands fill the air.
“Turn off the engine!”
“Show me your hands!”
“Step out of the vehicle!”
I get out of my car before I realize I’ve moved.
They pull a woman from the driver’s seat. Cuff her. Guide her away.
Someone opens the back door. And then—
A little girl steps out.
Small.
Fragile.
Wrapped in a hoodie that swallows her frame.
Her hair is longer now. Tangled at the ends. Her cheeks are thinner than they should be.
She blinks against the flashing lights.
The shouting.
The chaos.
The woman who was just pulled away, screaming.
She doesn’t understand.
She just stands there.
Frozen.
A police officer kneels slightly, speaking softly to her, but she isn’t listening.
She’s looking past him.
Scanning.
Searching.
And then her eyes land on me.
I stop breathing.
For one split second, I see it.
Fear.
Not recognition.
Fear.
She takes a small step back.
Her hand curls into the sleeve of the hoodie.
Like she’s preparing to hide.
My chest caves in on itself.
No.
Please no.
I don’t move.
I’m terrified that if I take one step too fast, I’ll scare her more.
“Ivy,” I whisper. My voice cracks.
She flinches at the sound of it.
She studies me the way children study strangers, cautious, guarded, trying to decide if they’re safe.
Three years.
Three years of bedtime stories missed.
Of birthdays.
Of scraped knees I wasn’t there to kiss.
And now my own daughter looks at me like she’s trying to place a memory she’s not sure is real.
Her lip trembles.
Tears spill down her cheeks.
She glances back over her shoulder at the woman being placed in the cruiser.
Then back at me.
Confused.
Lost.
My entire body is shaking.
“Ivy,” I say again, softer this time. “It’s Daddy.”
Her face changes.
Not instantly.
It’s slow.
I see it happen.
Her eyes trace my face.
My mouth.
My eyes.
Like she’s digging through a filing cabinet in her head.
Looking for something familiar.
Her breathing stutters.
Her brows pull together.
And then—
Recognition.
It hits her like a wave.
Her mouth opens.
Her voice is small.
Broken.
“Daddy?”
That word doesn’t land.
It detonates.
I cross the distance before I realize I’ve moved.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
“I’m here,” I choke. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”
She hesitates one more second—then she launches forward.
And when she crashes into me, it’s not gentle.
It’s desperate.
She clings to me like she’s not sure if this is real.
I fold around her.
And I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe.
“Ivy,” I choke. “My baby.”
My hands shake as I touch her hair, her face, her back—like I need to make sure she’s real.
“Are you okay?” I say, over and over. “Are you hurt? Did she hurt you? Are you okay?”
She nods quickly. “I’m okay. She didn’t hurt me.” She hesitates, then adds, quietly, “She was just… taking care of me. She was my new mommy.”
The words stab straight through me.
But I don’t correct her. Not now. Not like this. I just pull her closer and bury my face in her hair.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
She nods again.
Sirens. Radios. Voices.
Moments later, paramedics kneel beside us.
They check her vitals. Look her over. Shine a light in her eyes.
As they work, I finally lift my head.
And that’s when I see him.
Across the driveway, still sitting in his car, is the man who refused to let this die. He hasn’t gotten out. He doesn’t need to.
Taylor Pierce.
He’s watching us, one hand resting on the steering wheel. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t smile big or celebrate. He just looks… relieved. Proud. Like a man who stayed in the fight until the very last second. We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. He gives me a single nod.
I nod back.
Nothing needs to be said.
“She needs to go to the hospital,” one of the paramedics says gently.
I nod immediately. “I’m going with her.”
In the ambulance, she holds my hand like she’s afraid to let go. Like she’s afraid this is another dream.
I don’t let go either. Not even for a second.
When they get her settled, I pull out my phone. My hands are still shaking as I call Maddison.
She answers on the first ring. “Nathan?”
“I found her,” I say, and my voice finally breaks. “I found Ivy.”
There’s a sound on the other end—like she stopped breathing. Then, “Oh, my God,” she whispers.
“I’m in the ambulance with her,” I say. “She’s okay. She’s really okay.”
Maddi starts crying.
So do I.