six
Jackson
Time has stopped behaving like something linear and has instead settled into something heavier, something that presses rather than moves, because I’m no longer tracking it by minutes or by anything external, but by how many hours have passed since she was taken and how little we have to show for it.
I don’t need to check the clock to know where we are.
I know the number.
I’ve been counting it without meaning to, feeling it settle deeper into my chest every time another hour slips past without anything changing, without anything breaking open into something we can use.
It’s been almost twenty-eight hours.
And the longer that number sits there, the harder it becomes to push away what comes with it, the quiet, creeping thought that something might already have gone too far, that every hour we lose is something we don’t get back.
I lean forward slightly, my elbows resting on my knees for a second before I push back into the table again, forcing my attention to stay on the screen in front of me even as something tighter starts to build underneath it.
The footage plays again.
Same angle.
Same stretch of driveway.
Same moment she steps into frame.
I watch it all the way through, not because I expect it to change but because stopping feels worse, because stopping means sitting in the space where my head starts filling in everything I don’t want to think about.
Nothing shifts.
Nothing gives.
The street footage hasn’t helped either. Cars pass, people move through frame, everything continues exactly as it should, completely disconnected from what actually happened in that space, and every time I run through it again it feels more useless than the last.
My jaw tightens as I scrub the timeline back and start again, my focus narrowing harder with each pass, because the alternative is letting the thought fully form that she’s out there somewhere with someone who took her, who planned this, who had time to set it up and hasn’t rushed to return her.
The idea of that, of her in someone else’s space, someone else’s control, sits wrong in a way that makes my chest feel tight, like something is pressing in from the inside and not letting up.
Behind me, Christian’s voice cuts through the room, and this time I don’t have to force myself to pay attention because the shift in his tone is enough on its own.
“We’ve got one.”
Everything in me sharpens instantly, the tension redirecting in a way that almost feels like relief, because finally there’s something to move toward instead of sitting in this.
I turn.
Christian is already on the phone, his posture changing, his voice sharpening into something more precise as he listens.
“Yeah,” he says, pacing once. “Take him to the warehouse.”
Across the room, Elijah doesn’t hesitate. There’s no question, no discussion, just movement, the decision already made before anyone else can speak.
“I’m coming.”
Something in my chest tightens again, sharper this time, because if this is real, if this actually leads somewhere, then we might finally be able to do something that matters.
I push back slightly from the table, my attention flicking between them and the screens in front of me, caught for a second between staying here and tearing out the door with them, between continuing to pull this apart piece by piece and putting my hands on something that can actually break.
The decision doesn’t have time to settle.
