"Open is better. My daddy says so."
I bit back a smile. "Your daddy sounds like he knows a lot about home design."
"He knows a lot abouteverything." Pride crept into her voice. "He's really smart. He works all the time, but that's because he's important."
I was trying to formulate how to ask about calling him, about phone numbers and addresses, when the renovation show cut abruptly to a blue "BREAKING NEWS" graphic. The screen switched to a live press conference.
A man stood at a podium flanked by police officers, his face etched with raw, terrible anguish that made my stomach clench. Dark hair, immaculately cut. Sharp jaw tight with strain. Eyes the color of a storm-churned sea, gray-blue, I realized. Millie's eyes.
"...my daughter, Millie Sterling, is seven years old," he said, his voice deep and frayed at the edge of every word, the sound of a man holding himself together by his fingernails. "She was last seen at our residence this afternoon. We are pursuing all leads, and I am personally offering a ten-million-dollar reward for any information leading directly to her safe return."
Ten million dollars.
The number was so absurd, so incomprehensible, that I almost laughed. Yesterday, I couldn't afford dinner while someone else had ten million dollars to give.
Millie sat bolt upright beside me, the blanket falling from her shoulders.
"That's my daddy!" She pointed at the screen, her face transformed with hope so fierce it hurt to witness. "Miss Claire, look! That's my daddy!"
I looked at her face for any signs that she was joking, but it was all seriousness. And it finally dawned on me: A billionaire on TV had just offered ten million dollars to anyone with information on his missing daughter. And she was sitting next to me on my couch.
Yesterday, I barely had enough money for food, and I had just been fired from my job. I have only thirty-three dollars to my name.
A phone number flashed on the screen, and my hands were already shaking as I grabbed my phone and started dialing.
The rain was still tapping against the windows while she leaned her head on my arm and smiled at the screen.
The operator picked up, a deep male voice came through the line, low and strained.
"This is the emergency line for Mr. Sterling. Who am I speaking with?"
I froze, my throat tight, then said, "Umm... hi... I'm Claire. I think I have your daughter."
The silence on the other end lasted exactly two heartbeats. I could hear him breathing; it was sharp and ragged.
Then Nathaniel Sterling said, "Where are you? Is she hurt? Is she?—"
“She’s safe.” I interrupted before he could say any more. “She’s warm and dry. She’s had something to eat. She’s okay, Mr. Sterling.”
Millie smiled and kept a curious look on her face. I reached out and held her hand as she maintained a keen ear, trying to listen in to our conversation.
“Where?” His voice came out almost hurried, and without any other noise, not even his breathing.
I told him where I lived. I could tell he was hurrying; the sound of keys rattling and doors opening while he struggled to speak was all I heard.
“Don’t let anyone in. Don’t let her out of your sight. I’ll be there in… Twenty minutes.”
“We’ll be here,” I wasn’t gonna let her disappear, but it didn’t feel like she’d go away either. “Mr. Sterling? She’s really okay. She’s a brave kid.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my trembling hand.
"Is Daddy coming?" Millie looked up at me, gray-blue eyes full of a trust I hadn't earned but desperately wanted to deserve.
"Yes, sweetheart." I pulled her closer, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Your daddy's coming."
She let out a breath and relaxed against me, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest. On the TV, Nathaniel Sterling was still at the podium, still pleading for information about a daughter who was currently dripping soup on my secondhand couch.
