The conference room is at the end of the hall, past the kitchen and the common area where we keep the television that's always playing sports nobody's really watching.
I can hear Dallas and the others behind me, following at a respectful distance. Whatever this is, they're not letting me face it alone. That's what crew means.
The conference room door is half-open. I can see movement inside, hear the soft murmur of voices—a woman's voice, and something higher, younger.
I push the door open, and my entire world tilts sideways.
Sierra is standing by the window, backlit by the gray morning light. Eight years have passed since I last saw her, since I packed everything I owned into my truck and drove away from thelife we were supposed to build together. Eight years, and she looks exactly the same. Different. The same person but more, somehow.
Her light brown hair is longer, pulled back in a ponytail. She's curvier than I remember, beautiful in a way that makes something in my chest hurt with recognition and loss.
"Cade." My name sounds different in her voice, weighted with time and distance and all the things we never said to each other.
I can't speak. Can't move. Can't process the fact that she's here, in Blackwater Falls, in my fire station, after eight years of silence.
Then I see the little girl.
She's maybe seven or eight, standing slightly behind Sierra like she's not sure if she should be brave or shy. She has light brown hair like her mother, but her eyes…
Her eyes are mine.
That same shade of blue I see every morning in the mirror. And her chin, stubborn and pointed, that's mine too. The shape of her face, the way she's standing with her weight on one foot, like she's ready to bolt but forcing herself to stay put—
Oh God.
"Cade," Sierra says again, and her voice cracks. "This is Ruby." She puts her hand on the little girl's shoulder, gentle and protective. "She's your daughter."
The world narrows to those four words. She's your daughter.
I have a daughter.
I have a daughter and I didn't know.
Eight years. She's been raising our child for eight years and I didn't know. The room spins. Or maybe I'm spinning. I reach forthe back of a chair, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles go white.
"Cade?" Dallas's voice, concerned, from somewhere behind me. "You okay?"
I can't answer. Can't look away from this little girl—Ruby—who's watching me with my own eyes, curious and cautious and completely unaware that she's just detonated a bomb in the middle of my life.
Sierra takes a step forward, her hand still on Ruby's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know this is… I should have called. Should have warned you. But I was afraid you wouldn't—" She stops, takes a breath. "We need to talk."
Talk. Right. That's a thing people do, isn't it? They talk. They use words. Form sentences.
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.
"You—" My voice sounds like gravel, rough and broken. "Eight years."
It's not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact.
"I know." Sierra's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "I know, and I'm sorry, and I'll explain everything. But first—" She looks down at Ruby, then back at me. "First, I thought you should meet her. That she should meet you."
Ruby is still watching me, and slowly, she smiles. It's my smile, the one my mother used to say could charm birds out of trees before she died and took all those memories with her.
"Hi," Ruby says, her voice small but steady. "Are you really my dad?"
And just like that, the world I've spent eight years building, the safe, simple world where I don't let anyone close enough to hurt or be hurt, shatters into a thousand pieces.
I have a daughter.
