"Oh my God." The girl's mother shakes her head and looks at Rika with big, apologetic eyes.
Even Ms. Langford stifles a gasp. Rika swallows like it hurts, her small, dainty fingers closing around her throat.
Then she turns to Ms. Langford. "Where is Zoe now?"
"In the changing room," Ms. Langford says. "I told her to wait there until you arrived."
Rika turns and strides down the hall so fast her cardigan flutters behind her.
Seconds drag. Then Rika comes back into the lobby like she's been launched.
"She's not there." Her voice comes out too sharp and high-pitched. Her eyes are wide and glassy, panic pouring off her in waves. "Zoe isn't in the changing room."
Ms. Langford's mask cracks. "What? She was there a few minutes ago."
Rika doesn't hear her. She looks straight at me, raw fear in her face.
"Noah," she says, voice shaking. "Do you think she ran away?"
All heat drains from my face.
"She can't be far," I say, glad to hear my voice strong and steady. "We need to split up. You take Matthew and drive the routes she might walk. Home, the park near your house, anywhere she'd feel safe. I'll go on foot around the studio."
Rika looks at me with wide eyes, then nods. Her hands close around Matthew's shoulders.
"Okay. Yes. Okay." Her voice shakes. "That's a good plan. Let's do that."
We leave after Ms. Langford promises to call both of us if she or anyone at the studio hears from Zoe. We separate in the parking lot. Rika drives off with Matthew, and I take off down the sidewalk, casting wide glances around the empty town square.
My mind maps the area automatically. If I were a thirteen-year-old girl, hurt, angry, and humiliated, where would I go?
Somewhere familiar. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she could be alone.
I cut through the town square, scanning benches and corners and the gaps between buildings. Saltford Bay is small, but in this moment it feels endless. Worst-case scenarios try to claw up my spine and I shove them back down.
Then I see it: a flash of sapphire blue near the playground across the square.
My chest loosens slightly as I change direction, forcing my pace to slow. Zoe is curled on a weathered wooden bench, hoodie pulled over her head despite the mild weather. Her sapphire wings are tucked close, wrapped around her shoulders. She stares at the ground like she can will herself invisible.
I don't announce myself. I just sit on the far end of the bench, leaving space between us.
Then I wait.
The silence stretches. A bird calls from somewhere in the trees. A car passes behind us. The faint smell of cut grass and playground mulch drifts on the breeze.
Zoe's breathing is uneven, hitching slightly like she's been crying or is trying not to.
Finally, without looking at me, she speaks. Her voice is small and raw.
"I messed up again."
It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with a kind of tired resignation that breaks my heart.
"You want to tell me what happened?" I keep my voice gentle. Neutral.
Zoe hunches further. "Madison said I didn't deserve to get the solo." Her mouth twists. "And then she said that thing. About Dad."
I nod slowly. "Okay. You lost your temper and got physical. That's not okay, but at least you know it."
