Nathan
An envelope sits on the counter. Plain. Slightly bent at the corners.
My name is written in her handwriting.
I stare at it like it might explode. Like maybe it already has.
I haven’t seen Ella since the night I told her to leave, since I pushed away the only beautiful yet cruel thing I’d let into my world in a very long time.
My hand hovers above the envelope. Then lowers.
I open it.
Silence.
Just the sound of paper unfolding.
A photo slips free.
It lands face up.
A tire swing in a pleasant-looking backyard.
And next to the swing, Ella, one arm outstretched selfie-style, cuddling a little girl with mismatched eyes.
Brown and blue.
My entire body goes still.
My knees give.
I drop hard to the floor, one hand clutching the photo like it might not be real.
My breath catches in my throat. It comes out shallow. Panicked.
“Ivy…” Her name breaks from me, barely a whisper, but it rips everything open.
Tears blur my vision before I even realize they’re falling. Not the kind of crying people see—the kind that breaks from the center of your chest, the kind that makes you feel like you’re drowning even when your lungs are full of oxygen.
I fumble for my phone, my hands shaking.
“Taylor, get to the address I just sent you. Call the police. It’s her. I swear to God…it’s her.”
The world leaps into motion without my permission.
Keys in my hand. Door. Hallway. Elevator. Car.
I don’t remember any of it.
I’m driving.
I know I’m driving because the road is moving and the city is blurring past, and my hands are locked so tightly around the steering wheel that my knuckles are white and aching.
The photo is on the passenger seat.
Face up.
Like she’s watching me.
