The board by the door.
A tacked-up sheet of paper, corners curled, edges sun-bleached.
MISSING
My stomach drops.
I move toward it without choosing to. My boots are loud on the floor, but the world goes quiet. The closer I get, the worse the feeling builds in my ribs. When I reach the flyer, the air stalls in my lungs.
It’s her.
Not mine. Not yet.
Not the feral girl I found in the woods, or the trembling woman hiding under my bed, or the fierce tracker with fire behind her eyes.
A different Briar.
Clean clothes. Hair brushed smooth. A soft smile that doesn’t know pain yet.
The photo hits harder than any blow. My fingers hover above her face on the page, afraid to touch it, afraid it will disappear. The girl in the picture doesn’t know how her hair smells after a fire burns low. Doesn’t know the specific weight of her head on my shoulder when the trembling finally stops. Doesn’t know the way she presses her palm flat against my chest in the dark, checking that I’m still there.
That girl doesn’t know any of it yet. But mine does. And the thought of losing the woman she became—the one who tracked a bear by instinct, who wrote HOME on a scrap of paper and handed it to me like a gift, who crawls into my arms not from fear but from want—closes around my throat and squeezes.
The words underneath the photo swim in front of my eyes.
BRIAR ROSE ELLIS — AGE 21
LAST SEEN NEAR HOLLOW RIDGE
$5000 REWARD
IF YOU HAVE INFORMATION…
Family.
She has family.
People who love her. People who never stopped looking. People who want her back.
People who had her first.
My chest tightens. A cold, ugly fear slides through me. Because if they find her… if she remembers them… if she sees the life she lost…
What happens to the life she has with me? What happens to the way she reaches for me in the dark? I’m already falling in love with her. The thought of my cabin empty puts my heart in a vice.
The clerk clears his throat behind the counter. “Sad story, that one. Been three years now. Poor girl’s probably dead. But her mama—she don’t quit.”
Something inside me snaps.
I rip the flyer off the board so fast the thumbtack pops and bounces across the floor.
“Hey—” the clerk starts.
I turn and stare at him. Quiet. Dead cold. His mouth shuts immediately.
The paper crumples in my hand, but I smooth it out, fingers shaking. I fold it once. Twice. Tuck it into my pocket until I’m ready to face it head on.
My pulse thunders.
