“Spit it out,” I snap.
Saveliy takes a deep breath. “We intercepted a message. It was encrypted, but we managed to crack it.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “It mentioned Wren.”
The world goes still. Wren. After three years of silence, her name hits like a bullet to the chest.
“What did it say?” I demand, my voice dangerously low.
Saveliy’s answer chills me to the bone: “It said, ‘The Raven returns to the nest.’”
62
Wren
The smell of stale coffee and disinfectant hits me as I pace the worn carpet of Denver International Airport’s arrivals area. My boots make a dull thud with each step, competing with the constant drone of announcements and rolling luggage.
I’ve been here since 2 PM, burning a day off work to pick up Em. Five hours of watching faces that aren’t hers stream past. Five hours of fighting the urge to wave at every blonde who could be her.
The arrivals board flickers, catching my eye.Flight UA1234 from Chicago:ARRIVED.My stomach twists. That’s Em’s flight. It landed over an hour ago.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my jeans pockets. My fingers brush against my phone, and I yank it out, double-checking the date and time. No, I didn’t screw up. This is the right day, the right flight.
A nearby couple reunites, all tearful hugs and sloppy kisses. I look away, my jaw clenching.
Where the hell is she?
I spot an airline employee, a tired-looking woman with graying hair tucked under her cap. I make a beeline for her.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. “The flight from Chicago, UA1234. It’s landed, right?”
She nods, tapping at her tablet. “Yes, it arrived about an hour and fifteen minutes ago. All passengers have disembarked.”
My fingers drum against my thigh. “You sure? My sister was supposed to be on that flight. Emily Davis. Maybe she got bumped to another one?”
The woman’s fingers move across the screen. She frowns, shaking her head. “I’m not showing any Emily Davis on later flights from Chicago today. Was she definitely traveling today?”
“Yes,” I snap, then force myself to take a breath. Not this lady’s fault. “Sorry. Yes, she was supposed to be on that flight. Are there any other planes coming in from Chicago? Maybe she changed her booking?”
More tapping. Another head-shake. “I’m afraid not. The next flight from Chicago isn’t until tomorrow morning.”
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “Shit. Okay, thanks.”
I turn away, my mind racing. This isn’t like Em. She’s always been the responsible one, the planner. She wouldn’t just not show up without a word.
A year. It’s been a whole fucking year since I’ve seen her in person. Our last FaceTime call flashes through my mind—Em’s face fuller, her hair shorter, choppy bangs framing green eyes that seemed… different. Harder, maybe. She’d talked about her internship, her voice steady and clipped, professional. My little sister, all grown up and corporate.
I fish out my phone, checking our messages for the hundredth time.
Me [Yesterday, 8:14 PM]:Hey, squirt, all set for tomorrow? Can’t wait to see your fancy ass waltz off that plane. Bet you don’t even remember how to skin a fish anymore.
The message sits there, two blue checkmarks mocking me. Read, but no reply.
Not like Em.Not at all.
A garbled announcement crackles over the speakers. I strain to hear, but it’s lost in the general chaos. Fuck it. I hit Em’s number, pressing the phone to my ear.
One ring. Two. Three.
“Come on, Em,” I mutter, ignoring the side-eye from a nearby mom wrangling a screaming toddler.
