Tears pricked Izzy's eyes. No questions about why she was bothering them mid-mission. No hesitation. Just immediate readiness to help.
It's my ex. Just got this...
She screenshotted Andrew's text and sent it.
Can u locate him?
Zara: In a heartbeat. On it.
Izzy pressed her palms against her eyes, overwhelmed by the reminder that she wasn't alone anymore. She had a team. A family that had chosen her.
When she finally emerged, Tom was still fumbling through his inspection. The volunteers had gone back to discussingMedFlight's aggressive expansion tactics, but Izzy couldn't focus on any of it.
Her mind spun through possibilities. Andrew had never wanted Chantal—not when she was born, not during the divorce, not in the six years since. So why the sudden interest? Why the possessive language?
Was someone paying him? Using him? Or had he found some angle to work, some way to hurt her that he hadn't thought of before?
"You sure you're okay, honey?" Martha appeared at her elbow as Tom and Janet finally prepared to leave.
"I will be." Izzy managed a weak smile. "I've got backup this time."
But inside, cold fear continued to grow. Andrew knew exactly how to hurt her—he'd had plenty of practice during their brief, disastrous marriage. And he'd always been vindictive when he didn't get his way.
She stared at her phone, willing Zara to work miracles. She needed to know where Andrew was before he got anywhere near Chantal. Because whatever he wanted, it wouldn't be good.
5
Izzypadded 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.
