I loosened my tie and stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the marble counter—the same counter where she’d once stood, reading the back of a carton, sleeves rolled up, bare feet on the tiles.
I turned away from the harsh reality.
Lucia had taken her light away.
?? ?? ??
The ice rattled in my glass as I swirled it, watching the amber whirl. I’d retrieved our videos from the deleted folder but stopped watching them. I didn’t need footage to remember how soft her skin felt, or how she smelled. Some things were seared into memory.
The phone rang.
I didn’t check the caller ID.
“I think we found her.”
The glass hit the table with a crack. I sat forward, pressing the phone tight to my ear.
“Say that again,” I rasped.
“In Carlisle. Near the train station. She was caught on CCTV.”
“You’re sure it’s her this time?”
“Yes. And… you were right—she looks pregnant.”
“Her location?”
“That’s what I’m working on.”
He kept talking—details, methods, names I didn’t care about. All I could think of was Lucia.
“…I’m emailing you the pictures,” he said finally.
I hung up and waited.
Each heartbeat pounded against my ribs. I took a few deep breaths, but the urge to drive straight to Carlisle didn’t fade. I reached for my scotch, drained the glass, and stared at the melting ice cubes.
Could it really be her?
After five months that had felt like five years.
That smile… the way she’d—
My phone chimed. Then again.
Emails.
I opened the one marked Digital—better quality. I’d been down this road of false hope before.
The image loaded slowly. I zoomed in, pulse climbing with every pixel that sharpened.
There she was.
Not in heels and a suit this time, but trainers and a hoodie. I lifted the phone closer. Beneath the baggy fabric, the gentle curve of her belly.
Proof.
My child. My blood.
