“Shh.” I press my back to the door. “You’re doing perfect.”
Brian’s voice outside grows sharper. “You’re making a mistake. You can’t keep her from me forever.”
I don’t answer. I don’t move. The sound of his boots on the porch boards feels like thunder in my chest.
Then—silence.
A long, terrible silence. And then the sound of retreating footsteps fading toward the drive.
I stay frozen until I hear the distant wail of sirens. Only then do my legs give out. I sink against the counter, breath coming in ragged gasps that burn my throat. Flashing red and blue spill across the walls. When the knock comes again, I flinch but try to pull myself together as I push the table out of the way. Two officers step inside, their voices calm as they scan the room.
But all I can think about is getting to the other side of the room and pulling my little girl into my arms and never letting go.
Chapter 35
Silas
It happens mid-drill.
We’re running a neutral-zone regroup in Charleston, pucks snapping tape-to-tape, and my legs finally feel like they belong to me again. Thorn passes his board off to the goalie coach before answering his phone. Don’t ask me how I know it isn’t a good call.
Thorn sees my eyes cut to the corner and blows the drill dead. “Water,” he yells to the team then points at me. “Harrison. Here.”
I coast over, chest rising, lungs burning clean. He doesn’t bother moving close enough for the guys to eavesdrop—he just holds his phone out so I can see there is a call on speaker.
“Go.”
Thorn’s cousin, the officer, speaks in a calm voice that makes the blood drain from my head. “We’re at your residence. Everyone’s safe. Repeat—everyone is safe. Suspect left the property before units arrived.”
Suspect. They won’t say his name, but I hear it anyway.
Brian Harrison. My father.
“Put me through to Oakley.” I’m already climbing the boards, already stripping my gloves as I hit the bench. “Now.”
“She’s with officers inside,” the officer says. “Both girls are shaken but safe. Get home if you can.”
“Copy,” Thorn says for both of us and kills the call.
“I’m going.” I’m not asking for permission. I’m not waiting for protocol. “Flight, bus, car—I don’t care. I’m going.”
“I know.” Thorn’s voice is steady. “Rooks, grab his gear.” Then to me, quieter, he reiterates what we were just told. “They’re okay.”
Rooks is already vaulting the bench, tugging at his helmet strap. “I’ll drive. We can be on the road in five.”
“Practice is over,” Thorn calls to the ice without taking his eyes off me. “Shower if you need it then hotel. Jacobs and Harrison are out.”
I’m halfway down the tunnel, skates clattering on concrete, before I realize I’m still wearing them. I kick them off at the threshold, jam my feet into sneakers without socks, and sling my bag over my shoulder. My fingers don’t work right. My brain’s two minutes behind my body.
In the truck, the seat belt feels too restricting. I need to be in Steele Valley. I should have never left. Rooks peels us out of the lot and onto the highway, and the world turns into a smear of lanes and taillights.
“Talk to me,” he says, eyes flicking between the road and my face.
“He was on my porch.” I suck in air between clenched teeth. “They said he left. They said they’re safe.”
Rooks reaches for the console with one hand and pops a water bottle into my palm. “Drink. Breathe. Text Oakley so she sees your name.”
I don’t think; I just type.
