Beautiful, if my daughter wasn’t trapped inside.
I abandoned the car halfway up the drive, charging toward the grand entrance where several people stood gathered on the steps. My hand brushed against the knife at my waistband.
“Where the hell is my daughter?” I demanded.
Silence. My last thread of patience snapped.
“If anyone in this house has laid a finger on my baby, I will murk everyone in this motherfucka! Don’t think I won’t!”
A woman in a robe gasped. I didn’t care. Let them clutch their pearls.
“Tia!” My voice cracked. “Mommy’s here! You can come out. Nobody will hurt you!”
Then I saw her, standing in the doorway, looking completely bewildered and unharmed. Relief flooded through me with such force I staggered.
“Mom?”
I rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. “My baby,” I whispered into her braids.
I released her and held her at arm’s length, searching for any sign of distress. She looked healthy, if confused. No obvious bruises, eyes clear, and standing steadily.
“What are you doing here?” She asked, and I could hear the shock in her voice.
“I’ve come to save you,” I stated, eyeing the assembled group with suspicion.
They didn’t look like kidnappers, but appearances meant nothing. My ex-husband, Kevin, had held me through every tear when Tia was diagnosed with cancer, all while fucking Ashley.
Tia gave me a puzzled frown. “Save me? From what?”
“Katalina called me, Tia,” I said. “She told me everything.”
“What did she say?” Tia asked.
“It doesn’t matter what she said.” I tightened my grip on her shoulders. “All that matters is I’m here now, and I’ll take you home.”
A beautiful woman—who seemed familiar — with hip-length braids and a pleasant expression stepped forward with outstretched hands. “Hi there, I’m Kayla Christakis.” Her American accent was gentle. I knew immediately she was the friend Tia had made a few months ago. “And this is Domna, Irida, and Dimitrios Christakis.”
“Let’s go,” I told Tia, maintaining my focus on her alone.
“Mom, these people have been kind to me,” she pleaded, with a note of embarrassment. “Please be nice.”
“You expect me to be friendly with the people who’ve kept you hostage?” The words sounded ridiculous even as they left my mouth, especially given Tia’s clear freedom of movement.
“What?” she looked stunned.
“Your daughter is safe here,” the man—Dimitrios—interjected. “She is not being held captive.”
I shot him my most withering glare before turning back to Tia. “Kat called me thirty minutes—” I caught myself, realizing the slip. “I meantthis morning,to tell me you were being held here against your will. I came as soon as I heard.”
Tia seemed too overwhelmed to notice the inconsistency in my story.
“Mom,” she said, reaching for my hand, “why don’t we go inside? There’s a lot I need to tell you.”
I pressed my palm to her forehead. “Are you feeling okay? Do you think it’s Stockholm syndrome?”
“Mommm!” she whispered urgently. “I’m fine. Please, can we go inside?”
I studied her face, searching for signs of coercion or fear, but found only exasperation. Finally, I nodded, but couldn’t resist turning back to the family with one final warning. “Just so we’re clear, I know kung fu and have several pointy objects on my person. So nobody try anything.”
