An older woman.
She has gray hair pulled back neatly, a dark coat buttoned all the way up, shoes sensible and expensive. She does not look rushed. She does not look frightened. She looks…composed. Like she belongs anywhere she stands.
The man lets go of me immediately.
That’s when the fear really hits.
She raises one hand slightly and he backs off without a word, hovering near the door like a dog waiting for a command.
My knees threaten to give out.
The woman walks closer, slow, deliberate. She crouches down until she’s at my eye level, her movements careful, nonthreatening. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, not cruel but not kind either.
She studies my face like she’s confirming something long memorized.
Then she smiles. Just a little.
“Isabella Thomas,” she says calmly. “I’ve been looking for you.”
My blood turns cold.
“I don’t know you,” I whisper.
She tilts her head. “No. But I know you.”
Before I can move, one of the men bends down and reaches under the bed.
“No—” I lunge forward, panic tearing out of me.
Lily’s little hands claw at the floor as she’s dragged into the open, her face red and wet with tears.
“Lily!” I crawl toward her, my heart slamming so hard I feel dizzy. “Please, please—she’s just a baby?—”
The man lifts her roughly, too fast, and Lily’s scream breaks into choking sobs. The woman simply takes Lily from the man’s arms as if correcting a mistake.
“Enough,” she says quietly.
The man lets go immediately.
Lily thrashes once, then the woman adjusts her hold, tucking Lily against her shoulder, one hand firm between her shoulder blades. She murmurs something low, steady, in a language I don’t recognize.
And Lily—my Lily—starts to calm.
Her cries soften into hiccups. Her small fists clutch the woman’s coat. Her head turns inward, pressed against a stranger’s chest.
That’s what makes my skin crawl.
“No,” I whisper, scrambling closer. “Don’t touch her. She doesn’t know you.”
The woman doesn’t look at me yet. She keeps rocking Lily gently, like this is familiar, practiced. Like she knows exactly how long it takes a frightened child to breathe again.
“She’s safe,” the woman says at last.
I shake my head violently. “You broke into my home.”
“She was frightened,” the woman replies calmly. “So were you.”
“You dragged me out from under a bed,” I snap, my voice shaking. “You don’t get to talk about fear.”
