Listen to Always by Gavin James

The harsh overhead light flickered slightly, casting long, tense shadows across the worn interrogation table. I sat there, my hands clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms, but I refused to break. The air in the room was thick with the stench of stale coffee and stale promises. I hadn't spoken a word since they brought me in. 

"I'm Detective Mark Clooney," he said, his voice low, deliberate. "This is Detective Emily Sanders, and Detective James Luc."

I didn't care about their names. 

Detective Clooney, the one with the carved beard and weathered eyes, sat directly across from me. His arms were folded, one eyebrow cocked, like he was already trying to piece together the puzzle of my silence. His gaze never wavered from me, but it was cold, calculating. He wasn't here to sympathize. He was here to break me.

Behind me, Detective James Luc paced the room. He moved like a tiger, back and forth, impatient and aggressive, his shoes scuffing the polished floor with every step. The other detective, Emily Sanders, leaned casually against the table, her posture as sharp as her suit. Her white-and-black ensemble was a deliberate contrast to the tension in the room, and her eyes—dark, focused—were like a vice on me. She wasn't here to make friends. She was here to get answers.

I couldn't care.

I wiped the tears that kept flowing down my cheeks, but they didn't stop. They never stopped. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been able to breathe without a knot tightening in my chest. My head felt foggy, my mind scattered—but I had to keep it together. Kayden was still out there. Missing. And Mrs. Porter was dead.

The silence stretched on, but I refused to speak. I wasn't ready. They weren't ready.

"How long are we going to wait? It's been half an hour," Luc growled, his voice sharp with impatience. His foot tapped an angry rhythm on the floor, the sound grating against my nerves.

"Give her time, James," Clooney said, his voice low, controlled. "She's still in shock."

"I've heard enough," Luc muttered, turning sharply, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. "She's not cooperating. How long are we going to babysit her?"

Emily's eyes flicked to him, sharp as ever. "She said her baby lived with the old lady. Mrs. Porter was the only one who could've—"

"How are we sure that's true?" Luc interrupted her, cutting through the air like a knife. His tone was venomous.

I stiffened, and for a brief second, my fists tightened. The audacity.

I couldn't focus on him. Mrs. Porter was dead, and my son—Kayden—was missing. That lunatic pacing behind me had no clue what it felt like to lose everything.

"I was told they found some toys around the house," Emily continued, speaking to Clooney now, her voice softer, more thoughtful. "A baby's nursery, but no child."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. The room felt smaller. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, the thud of my heart.

"I don't have time for this," Luc muttered, turning away from me again, restless, fingers running through his short, dark hair. "We've been here for half an hour. Please. Say something. Anything."

The desperation in his voice was starting to get to me.

Clooney's voice softened, just a touch, but it still held that authoritative edge. "We can't help you find your son if you don't give us the answers we need. Your answers might help us find him, and the killer."

The air in the room was thick, oppressive, like the walls were closing in with every breath I took. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to push away the tears that kept flooding my vision. They came relentlessly, hot and heavy, no matter how hard I tried to blink them away. My throat was raw, tight with emotion, and I could feel my heart lodged there, pounding painfully against my chest. It felt as though it would explode at any moment.

Everything—every lie, every secret, every moment of fear and guilt—was crashing down on me. I was so tired. So tired of this... of the waiting, the wondering, the not knowing.

The silence in the room pressed in around me, suffocating. I couldn't speak, couldn't think, could barely breathe.

Finally, my voice broke through the stillness, thin and hoarse, like it had been scraped from the depths of my throat. "Water?" The word was barely a whisper, but it seemed to hang in the air, heavy with desperation.

Without a second's hesitation, Detective Emily Sanders rose from her seat, her heels clicking sharply against the cold, sterile tile floor. The sound echoed in the quiet room, faint but deliberate, like a countdown. It felt like everything around me had become a distant hum, the noise outside the room fading into a blur.

  "Finally," Detective Luc muttered from behind me, his tone bitter, though I couldn't bring myself to care.

I didn't have the energy to respond, to defend myself. There was nothing left inside me but the hollow echo of the words I had to say, the terrible truths that still loomed.

Emily returned moments later, her expression as unreadable as before, but now she carried a small bottle of water. Her face was impassive, like she was just doing her job, just following protocol. She handed it to me without a word.

I took the bottle from her, my hands trembling so violently that it was a miracle I didn't drop it. The cool plastic felt foreign against my clammy palms. My fingers fumbled with the cap, and for a second, I thought I might just throw the damn thing at them and walk out. But I didn't. I couldn't. 

I twisted the cap off and brought the bottle to my lips. The water was cold, a brief, fleeting relief. I drank too quickly, gulping it down in two long swallows, desperate to quiet the fire in my throat. But the relief was temporary. The ache inside me, the suffocating weight of everything I was about to say, remained.

I dropped the empty bottle back on the table with a soft thud, the sound almost too loud in the silence that followed. My hands were still shaking, my chest still tight.

Detective Clooney's gaze had never left me. He was watching, waiting. There was something in his eyes now—anticipation, maybe a hint of something darker. He didn't look like a man who would give up easily. He looked like someone who knew how to make you crack.

"Are you ready now?" he asked, his voice taut, almost impatient. He was no longer playing games.

I nodded, though inside, every part of me screamed to  disappear. 

Clooney leaned forward, his hands folding together on the table like a predator preparing to pounce. There was something deliberate in his movements, something calculating. "Good. Let's begin."

He didn't break eye contact, not once. His stare felt like a pressure on my chest, tightening with every passing second. "Before we start, I need you to know that this entire conversation is being recorded. It would be in your best interest to cooperate with us."

The words stung, like a slap across my face. Cooperate? How could I not? What else was there to do? But I said nothing. I just nodded.

"Okay," I whispered, my voice barely a breath, swallowed up by the space between us.

Emily flipped open her notebook, the sound of the pages turning sharp in the stillness. She retrieved a fountain pen from the inside pocket of her jacket, her fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal.

"Firstly," she said, her voice cold and professional, "tell us your name."

"Chloe Simpson."

She nodded, scribbling something down in her notebook before looking up at me again, her gaze sharp and calculating. "What's your relationship with Mrs. Porter?"

I hesitated for only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. There was no point in pretending anymore. Kayden was in this, and everything had already unraveled. I couldn't protect him from this. Not anymore.

"She... she helped me," I started, my voice unsteady, but I pushed forward. "She helped me hide my baby. She was the only one who could." The words spilled out like a dam breaking, but even as they left my mouth, I knew the consequences. 

"So she offered to help you hide your baby?" Detective Emily asked, her gaze tightening, as if she was already forming conclusions in her mind.

I nodded, but the words didn't come.

The room felt smaller now. The walls felt like they were leaning in, and I wondered, for a brief moment, if I could just disappear. 

"Yes."

The silence in the room had become suffocating, the weight of their questions pressing down on me with each passing second. Detective Luc stepped forward, his boots clicking sharply on the floor, drawing my attention to him. His gaze was as cold as ever, and his voice was a low, demanding growl.

"Why aren't you allowed to visit after nine?" he asked, his words cutting through the stillness. 

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath, my hands suddenly clammy in my lap. The weight of everything—Kayden, Mrs. Porter, the lies, the fear—was crushing me. I took a moment to gather myself, my mind racing, but I couldn't avoid the truth.

"Because that's her bedtime," I said, my voice hoarse and thin. "Kayden's is 8:30."

 He nodded slowly, absorbing the answer, as though he was checking off a mental list.

Emily leaned in slightly, her eyes sharp, piercing. "So no one knows about the baby except the both of you?"

"Well, not anymore."

Her gaze sharpened, narrowing in on me. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch, and I felt it deep in my bones. Clooney's eyes flicked to me, his expression unreadable. He was the one who spoke next, his voice steady but firm, as if he was already ten steps ahead.

"Can you elaborate on that answer?" he asked, his pen hovering over his notepad, poised for what I would say next.

 There was no way out now. I had to tell them everything. For Kayden.

"His father found out a few days ago," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "And my best friend too."

The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of the truth. Emily didn't react immediately. Her pen scratched against her notepad as she wrote, her focus unbroken. But I could feel the change in the room, the shift in the air as they all processed what I'd said.

"Is that all?" Emily asked, her tone sharp, as though she wasn't buying it just yet.

I opened my mouth, closed it. I could feel the pressure building in my chest, like I was about to drown in the suffocating weight of what I'd been hiding.

"No," I whispered, my hands trembling in my lap. "There's this guy... Ryan."

The words felt like lead in my stomach, heavy and final. I didn't care anymore if they locked me up. If this was the cost of protecting my son, so be it.

I told them everything about Ryan. 

They didn't interrupt me, didn't stop me. They just listened, their eyes flicking between each other, exchanging a silent conversation I couldn't hear but felt in my bones. When I finished, the room seemed to hold its breath, as though we were all waiting for the storm to break.

Clooney was the first to speak, his voice steady, but there was a sharpness to it now. "So, when was the last time you saw him? Ryan."

"Tuesday morning," I answered, my voice faint, fragile. "Before I left for work."

James, who had been pacing again, stopped behind me. I could feel his presence like a shadow at my back, his gaze never leaving me. "When was the last time you visited Mrs. Porter?"

"Yesterday," I said quickly, my words almost tumbling out in relief. It felt better to answer these questions, even if it was only temporary.

James's eyes narrowed. "Time?"

"Around seven," I answered, the memory of it still fresh. The quick goodbye. 

"When did you leave?" James pressed, not bothering to mask the impatience in his voice.

"Ten minutes to nine." I could still see the clock in my head, the moment I'd glanced at it before leaving. 

He didn't stop there. "Did she call you? Or did you two speak on the phone after that?"

"No," I said, my voice tight with frustration. "We didn't talk after that."

The questions were coming faster now, relentless, like the wave of a storm crashing over me. Clooney's voice cut through the chaos, his gaze never leaving me.

"Was she on bad terms with anyone? Did anyone else visit her?" he asked, his tone surprisingly soft, but the implication in his words was clear. He was digging. Trying to find a reason to pin this on someone. Anyone.

I shook my head, the words feeling hollow as they left my lips. "None that I know of."

Emily's eyes were hard now, cutting into me like a knife. "You mentioned that you were protecting your son from his father. Things didn't end well between you two, I guess."

Her words hit me like a slap. Didn't end well. That was an understatement.

"Yes," I whispered, the simple admission of it like a weight pressing on my chest.

Clooney didn't let me breathe. His next question was quick, pointed, like he had me cornered. "Did he threaten to do anything after he found out?"

I shook my head slowly, my breath catching in my throat. "No."

The room fell into a charged silence, the kind that always follows a revelation. It was like they were waiting for more, hoping I would crack, that something else would slip from my lips. But I had nothing left to give. 

I was already trapped in the web I had spun. And there was no escaping now.

"Okay, that will be all for now." She cut me off, her tone firm, leaving no room for protest.

Before I could respond, Detective Dean's voice followed, cold and mechanical. "Ms. Simpson, I'm sorry, but we have to detain you for 48 hours until we confirm your story."

The blood drained from my face, my chest tightening with a cold rush of panic. 

"I understand," I whispered, my voice shaking. "But can't you do that after we find my baby? Please."

My heart raced in my chest, each beat like a drum pounding against my ribs. I wasn't ready for this. Not when Kayden could be out there, alone, scared. I wasn't ready to be thrown into a cell. I wasn't ready to be separated from him.

Dean's gaze softened, but there was no sympathy in it. "Given the circumstances, and your paranoia," he said, his voice unflinching, "you will be arrested with bail. If you have any relatives or friends you want to call to bail you out, let us know."

The words were mechanical, delivered with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. But to me, they felt like a blow to the gut.

"Okay, please find my baby," I said, the words barely more than a desperate plea, my voice cracking as it rose to a frantic pitch. I looked straight at Emily, hoping—praying—that she would hear the desperation in my words.

She met my gaze, her expression unreadable, but there was a flicker there, something that softened ever so slightly. "We promise we'll find your son," she said, her voice low but firm. "If you need a restraining order on your ex, we can—"

"No, I don't need that," I cut her off. I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm. But my body trembled with the effort.

I held out my wrists for the handcuffs, not even bothering to look at James as he stepped toward me. I could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of my neck, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. I had no fight left. No words to argue. The cuffs snapped around my wrists with a cold finality, biting into my skin as if they were locking away a part of me I might never get back.

They took me through the paperwork, the mug shot, each moment another piece of my dignity slipping away. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion, like I was watching myself from the outside, a detached observer to my own nightmare.

I didn't look at their faces as they led me out of the room. I couldn't.  They escorted me through the hallway, toward the cold, gray cell that awaited me downstairs.

"We'll find him," Clooney's voice came from behind me, distant and almost mechanical as he walked away.

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to do more, to hurry, to make sure my baby was safe. But I couldn't. I couldn't even find the strength to speak.

The door to the cell slammed shut behind me with a hollow, final sound. The cold concrete floor pressed against my bare feet as I sank down.

Tears brimmed at the edges of my eyes, hot and blurring my vision. My baby was out there somewhere. Was he still alive? Was he cold, hungry, scared? Was the person who had him treating him with the gentleness he deserved? Or was he terrified, alone in the dark?

I could hear nothing but the pounding of my own heart, a dull, rhythmic drumbeat that felt as if it was echoing through the empty room. Find him, please, I thought, the words looping over and over in my mind. Find my baby.I took a seat on the cold floor and cried. T

I spent the long hours in the cell, my world shrinking to the cold stone walls and the relentless ache in my chest. The tears came in waves, each drop a reminder of everything I had lost, everything slipping further from my grasp. I refused to eat, as if the act of eating would somehow diminish the rawness of the agony I felt. Every prison warden who passed by, I asked about my baby, my voice trembling with desperation. But no one had answers. No one could tell me where Kayden was.

The next day, the phone call came—a small flicker of hope amidst the darkness. I could barely speak, my voice thick with emotion as I called Adrian. I explained everything in fragments, stumbling over my words, drowning in the gravity of my own mistakes. He promised me, his voice like a lifeline, that he would come. He would bail me out. But even his words couldn't soothe the gnawing fear that consumed me. What if it was too late? What if I never saw Kayden again?

Another agonizing twelve hours passed before the door of my cell creaked open, and a prison officer appeared to escort me. "Someone's here to bail you out," he said, his voice distant and clinical. I stumbled to my feet, my body heavy with exhaustion, my head pounding with the weight of everything I had been through.

I walked down the hallway, each step echoing like a countdown, my mind racing. My eyes were swollen from crying, my head a dull, persistent throb. But none of that mattered. All I could think about was the little boy I'd failed.

And then, I saw him.

"Cassie."

I froze. His voice, so familiar, so deep and steady, cut through the fog of my thoughts. I looked up, and there he was—Tristan. My heart lurched, and a sob broke free before I could stop it. He was standing in the waiting area, his expression tight with concern, his posture rigid as if bracing himself for whatever was coming next.

I felt a storm of emotions rise within me. Fear. Guilt. Grief. 

I didn't care that we had never truly resolved anything, that our connection was fractured, complicated. All I knew in that moment was that I needed him. 

I stumbled toward him, my body shaking, my breath ragged. I didn't even think—just closed the distance and wrapped my arms around him. For a split second, he didn't move, his body tense with surprise, but then he softened, his arms folding around me, pulling me closer, as if trying to shield me from the storm that was tearing me apart.

I buried my face in his chest, my tears soaking through his shirt. "Someone took him," I whispered, my voice breaking, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat.

Tristan stiffened for a moment, and then, his voice low and steady, he spoke. "Adrian told me everything. We'll find him, I promise." His hand gently cradled the back of my head, his touch grounding me. "An amber alert was sent out yesterday. We'll get him back."

I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor, unable to meet his eyes. Every inch of me trembled under the weight of my guilt, and I couldn't bear to see the judgment I was sure would be there in Tristan's eyes. I already knew how he'd see it—how he'd see me. The perfect opportunity to tell me what a terrible mother I was, how my choices had led to this.

"I have no idea how it happened." My voice cracked, raw and broken as I sobbed, my chest heaving with the weight of all the pain, all the loss.

"I just wish I... this... this is all my fault," I cried, my words tangled in the flood of emotion.

"No, it's not." His voice was quiet, steady—a stark contrast to the chaos inside me. Tristan's hands gently cupped my face, his thumbs brushing away my tears, his touch impossibly tender. "We are going to find him," he said, his words holding a promise, a calmness I wasn't sure I deserved.

I leaned into him without thinking, needing the comfort more than I cared about anything else—more than my pride, more than the hatred I'd harbored for him. I needed his arms around me, his warmth. In that moment, I didn't care about our history, the past between us—just that he was here. And I clung to him desperately.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered against his chest, my words muffled, "It's all my fault." The weight of Mrs. Porter's death, Kayden's disappearance—they were all mine to carry. The choices I had made, the mistakes... I couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop the guilt from tearing me apart.

Tristan didn't pull away. Instead, he tightened his hold on me, his body stiff at first, but then softening, folding me deeper into his embrace. "It's fine. We'll find him," he whispered, the words soft but resolute. His hand rubbed up and down my back, a rhythmic comfort that didn't ask for anything in return.

I wasn't prepared for this. I wasn't prepared for Tristan to be kind. The Tristan I knew would have been furious—would have shouted, called me every name under the sun. But here he was, holding me, soothing me. The warmth of his arms, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, made my chest ache even more.

"Please stop crying," he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. "We'll find him."

He ran his fingers through my hair, the motion so gentle, so comforting, I almost forgot who we were—almost. It was the kind of tenderness I hadn't realized I craved until that moment. A small part of me, the part I didn't want to acknowledge, wanted to stay like this forever—safely held in his arms, shielded from the storm raging around me.

But reality crept back in, dragging me from the solace of his embrace. I pulled away after a moment, wiping my nose, sniffling as I tried to compose myself. My old Converse shoes, scuffed and worn, seemed to demand my attention. I couldn't look at him—not yet. Not with the weight of everything between us.

"What did the cops say?" My voice was shaky, but I had to ask. I had to know if there was any shred of hope left.

He hesitated for a moment before answering, his jaw tight. "They're still investigating. No footprints. No evidence at the crime scene." His voice dropped to a murmur. "The old lady... she was shot in the head."

I could feel my throat close up, my breath hitching. I fought against the tears, but they came anyway, hot and relentless. How could this be real? How could Mrs. Porter be gone? How could Kayden be taken?

Tristan reached into his pocket, his hand brushing against mine as he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to me. I took it wordlessly, mouthing a quiet "thanks" as I dabbed at my eyes. His touch lingered on my skin for just a second longer than necessary, and I felt it. That familiar spark, the warmth that always seemed to rise between us, no matter how much we fought it.

"Do they have any suspects?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady as I wiped my face, though it trembled with each word.

"No." His voice was tight, but there was something else in his gaze now. 

What about Ryan?

"Wait here, let me have a little talk with the Sheriff."
I nodded and took a seat.

Was Ryan behind this? Was this his revenge for what I did? Oh God, I was so screwed.

I brushed my hair back with one hand, my fingers trembling slightly as I leaned back in the seat, the weight of everything pressing down on me. My mind felt foggy, thoughts a blur of fear, guilt, and uncertainty. The silence in the room felt suffocating, heavy with the words neither of us dared to say.

Tristan was gone for only a few minutes, but by the time he returned, I felt like I had aged a hundred years. Without a word, we walked out of the building, side by side, the tension between us palpable. Each step felt like a countdown to some inevitable, painful moment, but neither of us seemed ready to face it.

Morris was waiting outside, the car pulling up with a quiet hum. We got in without speaking, the doors closing with a soft thud that felt too final, too heavy. Tristan slid into the seat next to me, and the space between us seemed to stretch endlessly.

I could feel the unspoken anger rolling off him, the frustration coiled so tight inside him that it practically buzzed in the air. He hadn't said a word, but I knew—knew he was seething, knew he was fighting the urge to shout, to scream at me. But he didn't. Not yet, anyway.

Morris, sensing the tension, turned on the radio, the low hum of music filling the otherwise suffocating silence. I caught him glancing at us in the rearview mirror, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips when our eyes met. I turned away quickly, not wanting to acknowledge the weight of the moment. I could feel Tristan shifting next to me, his body tense, restless.

His foot tapped against the floor, a sharp, rhythmic beat that mirrored the frantic pounding of my own heart. Every few seconds, a groan would escape him, deep and frustrated, and his fingers drummed impatiently on his thigh. I had never seen him like this before—this raw, this undone.

I couldn't help but glance at him, my gaze fleeting but filled with everything I couldn't say. He was angry. I could see it in the sharp line of his jaw, the way his knuckles were white against his leg. And yet, for some strange reason, he wasn't directing that anger at me.

A small part of me expected him to—needed him to—but I was terrified of what would happen if he did. He had already lost so much. If I was the one to blame for losing another child, I didn't think he'd ever forgive me. 

The car came to a stop in front of my apartment, the engine's hum fading into a haunting silence. It was the last place I wanted to be. The thought of stepping inside—of facing the four walls that had once been my refuge—now felt like walking into a trap. The silence was deafening, the million thoughts spiraling in my head threatening to tear me apart.

I didn't know how to ask him to stay, how to ask him to take me somewhere, anywhere, just to escape for a little while longer. But I didn't have to ask. Not yet.

I opened the door and stepped out, the cold air biting at my skin, and without a word, Tristan remained in the car. He looked distant, lost in his thoughts. Did he even realize the car had stopped? Or was he already somewhere far beyond this moment, wrapped in his own dark thoughts?

I gave Morris a weak smile, trying to muster the courage to walk back into the building. But I couldn't shake the fear gnawing at me. What if Ryan was coming for me too? What if I wasn't safe?

My heart raced as paranoia set in. I glanced over my shoulder, my skin prickling with the feeling of eyes on me. The elevator doors closed, but before they could shut completely, I shot out of them, panic rising in my throat. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears as I hurried toward the exit, my breath coming in sharp gasps.

And then I collided with him.

I stumbled back, the impact knocking the air out of my lungs.

"Is someone chasing you?" Tristan's voice was low, filled with concern that cut through the haze of my fear. I looked up at him, heart still hammering in my chest, and saw him scanning the area, his eyes darting around the building, alert.

"No," I whispered, trying to steady my breath, my hands shaking. I couldn't lie to him—not now. "I just... I just wanted to ask if I could stay at your place for a couple of days. I don't feel safe here. Especially with Vina gone."

There it was. The words I had been too scared to say, hanging in the air between us. I could feel the vulnerability of the moment, the rawness of it. But Tristan didn't hesitate.

"Sure," he said, his voice steady, without a second of doubt. "I was actually about to come up to make sure you're okay. Do you need anything from your apartment?"

My throat tightened. "Yeah," I managed to choke out, my voice cracking, "some clothes."

The ride up in the elevator was thick with tension. Every floor we passed felt like an eternity. And when the doors opened, I didn't expect the devastation I found.

I gasped. The apartment was a wreck—furniture overturned, items shattered on the floor, the remnants of my life scattered across the room like a cruel mockery. My breath caught in my throat as I stood frozen, staring at the ruins of what was once mine.

Tristan was at my side in an instant. He didn't ask, didn't hesitate. Without a word, he grabbed my arm, his grip firm yet gentle, and pulled me away from the chaos.

"Let's get out of here," he said, his voice quiet but insistent, filled with something I couldn't quite name. With a single motion, he guided me back to the elevator, his presence a shield against the overwhelming fear and sadness threatening to drown me.

 The ride to Tristan's house was a long stretch of suffocating silence. The world outside blurred into nothing, the trees and houses passing like shadows, while inside the car, the air felt thick, heavy with unspoken words and unrelenting tension. Every bump in the road seemed to echo inside my skull, reminding me that the pain in my head wasn't just from the exhaustion—it was from everything that had spiraled out of control.

When the car finally stopped in front of his house, the large, familiar structure stood there in the darkness, still and quiet. Tristan got out first, and I followed him, feeling every step in my sore body, the weight of the fear growing heavier with each move.

Kayden was out there, somewhere, and the person who took him wasn't done yet. I knew that much. He would come for me, too. That thought gnawed at me with a ferocity I couldn't escape. My mind raced, spinning out of control, and my body felt like it was giving up under the strain. The aching in my joints, the constant headache, the swollen eyes—all of it was a reminder that I wasn't even close to okay. But none of it mattered.

I climbed the stairs slowly, gripping the railing with a trembling hand, praying I wouldn't collapse. The pain in my head was relentless, a constant pounding against my skull. I paused halfway up, unable to stop the groan that slipped from my lips as I pressed my palm to the right side of my head.

"Are you okay?"

Tristan's voice was low, concerned—tender in a way that made something tighten in my chest. I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself.

"It's just my head," I murmured, my voice faint, barely a whisper.

Without hesitation, he stepped in closer, his hand warm on my left arm as he gently guided me the rest of the way up. He didn't speak, but the way he moved with me—strong and careful—spoke volumes.

When we reached the guest room, I collapsed onto the bed, the softness of the mattress both a relief and a weight. My eyes fluttered closed as I sank into the comfort, trying to block out the memories of this place. The house had once felt like home, like safety—but now it only held the ghosts of what was lost.

A few minutes later, Tristan returned, a glass of water and some painkillers in his hand. I took them wordlessly, needing the relief but not trusting my voice enough to thank him. He sat beside me on the bed, the comforter in his hands. Gently, he pulled it over me, his touch almost reverent. I wanted to sink into the softness of it, to let the warmth of his presence soothe me, but the guilt—the guilt—kept me awake.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words feeling too small for the storm inside me.

"Don't worry about it," Tristan said, his voice low and steady, full of something soft but unwavering. "I've got people out there looking for him."

The truth of his words hit me like a cold wave, but I couldn't rest. My body might have been exhausted, my mind a whirlwind of chaos, but my heart wouldn't let me stop. "I should be out there looking for him, not here."

I moved to sit up, but my body protested, the dizziness and pain overwhelming me.

"Cassie," Tristan said, his voice firm but kind, as he placed a hand on my shoulder, gently but with an authority that made me stop. "You're not well right now. Get some rest, and let me and Morris go look for him again."

There was a softness in his eyes, something that made the knot in my chest tighten. I wanted to argue, to push myself to my feet and do something, but Tristan's presence was grounding, and I couldn't deny the truth in his words.

"You still remember his face?" I asked quietly, my voice trembling with fear.

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady. "It's hard to forget." There was something in his eyes—something raw, something protective—that sent a shiver down my spine. "We'll find him, I promise."

"Please find him," I whispered, my voice breaking. The desperation was thick in the air, heavy in my chest.

"I will," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead as he gave me the smallest of smiles, one that held the weight of his promise. "Take some rest, okay?"

I nodded, the exhaustion pulling at me, but there was still that flicker of fear, of need, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Tristan's gaze softened even further, his expression gentle but laced with something unspoken. His hand lingered on mine, his touch warm and grounding.  "I'll be back soon."

With one last lingering look, he squeezed my hand gently, then stood up and left the room. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I was left alone in the silence.

∆

I woke to the warmth of Tristan's red shirt and grey sweats, the fabric soft against my skin, but it did little to ease the storm raging inside me. The morning passed in a blur of hopeless searching. I spent hours asking everyone I could find, desperate for news—any scrap of information—but no one had seen Kayden. The world felt like it was closing in around me, its edges blurry and distant, and no matter how hard I tried to hold it together, the fear and guilt tore at me from the inside.

When the sun grew too hot, Tristan insisted we go back home. He practically dragged me into the car, his voice quiet but firm, as if the weight of the situation had rendered us both speechless.

Once home, I locked myself in the guest room, retreating into the silence, hoping it would quiet the chaos in my head. After a quick shower, I tried to pull myself together, but nothing could quell the constant ache deep in my chest. I couldn't stop thinking about Kayden. Where was he? What was he feeling? The thought of him—alone, scared, confused—consumed me. Every second that passed felt like another heartbeat lost. He was just a baby. How could this happen to him?

The pillow beneath my head became damp as the tears poured down, mingling with the faint scent of shampoo and sweat. I pressed my face into it, unable to stop the sobs that wracked my body, each one pulling me deeper into the dark void that seemed to swallow everything around me. My emotions were so raw, I could barely understand them. Anger, guilt, fear—everything collided inside me, and I had no way to make sense of it.

I wanted him back so badly, my arms aching with the empty space where he should be. I missed the feel of his small hands wrapped around my neck, his tiny fingers pulling at my hair as he giggled, running circles around me, his laughter like music in the chaos. He didn't deserve any of this. He should be safe. He should be happy. Why was this happening?

The pain in my head came back, sharp and relentless. It was like waves of electricity, pulsing through my brain, overwhelming my senses, pulling me under.

A knock on the door jolted me from the depths of my spiral. I ignored it, the sound of my own breath the only thing I could hear.

"Cassie?"

Tristan's voice—gentle, but full of something I couldn't name—reached through the fog of my mind. When I didn't answer, he pushed the door open, stepping into the room. His presence, solid and unwavering, filled the space like a shield against the crushing weight of everything I felt.

"If you keep crying, your head won't stop aching," he said softly, walking to the bed, his gaze never leaving me. His eyes were tired, haunted—he wasn't okay either.

I couldn't stop the words that spilled out next, a desperate plea for something I wasn't sure even existed anymore. "Do you have the slightest idea of what he might be going through? He's just two. What if he's starving, or scared, or... or what if they're yelling at him? No one is there to hold him, to tell him it's okay." My voice broke on the last word, the dam I'd been holding back finally crumbling.

Tristan didn't say anything at first. He just climbed onto the bed beside me, his movements deliberate, yet somehow gentle, like he was afraid I might shatter under his touch. He didn't speak as he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close, and for a moment, I allowed myself to fall into him, needing the comfort of his warmth more than I'd ever admit.

I snuggled closer to him, my tears soaking into his chest as I let myself feel it all—the pain, the fear, the overwhelming need for everything to be okay. The world outside was dark and dangerous, but in this moment, with Tristan's arms around me, I felt a flicker of something—something I hadn't felt in days. Safety.

"We'll find him. I promise," Tristan whispered, his words, steady and unwavering, somehow cut through the chaos. He didn't ask anything of me, didn't tell me to stop crying. He just held me.

I nodded, my heart heavy but desperate for his words to be true. The silence between us felt like a fragile thread, each of us tangled in our own thoughts, yet strangely tethered to one another. The warmth radiating from Tristan's body was like a lifeline—his heat, his presence, enough to remind me I still had a soul, that I wasn't lost in the emptiness of my own grief. I leaned into him, burying my face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him grounding me, wrapping around me like a protective cloak. His rough stubble scraped my cheek, a small discomfort that somehow made me feel more alive. His hand was gentle in my hair, stroking it with a tenderness that felt both foreign and essential.

"We'll get him back soon. Kayden will want you alive and healthy," Tristan's voice was a low murmur, soft but unwavering. "Stay strong, for him."

The words, simple but filled with so much emotion, made something inside me stir. I wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that there was still hope, that we could somehow bring Kayden home. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a flicker of something other than pain—a flicker of strength.

I inhaled deeply, pressing my face further into the warmth of his neck, as if I could absorb every ounce of the comfort he offered. My body relaxed against his, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the feel of his heart beneath my ear, grounding me in ways I couldn't put into words. In that moment, the world outside—chaotic and cruel—seemed miles away.

After a long while, Tristan shifted slightly, his voice breaking the silence. "I actually came to get you for breakfast."

The idea of food felt foreign, almost absurd, and useless.

"If you want it here, I'll send Morris to—"

"It's fine," I interrupted softly. "Let's go."

We rose from the bed together, and as we made our way toward the dining room, Morris greeted us with a fat smile. As we settled into our seats, the doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet of the house. 

Morris excused himself, leaving to answer the door, and we could hear the low murmur of voices from the living room. They sounded familiar, though distant, as if they belonged to a world that had nothing to do with us. And then I recognized them. Detective Emily. Detective James.

I stiffened, my heart jumping into my throat. 

Morris returned shortly, his face unreadable. "Tristan, you have guests."

I followed him into the living room, my curiosity piqued. The detectives were standing in the center of the room, exchanging glances that I couldn't interpret. When they saw me, their surprise was palpable, but they said nothing. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except finding Kayden.

"Hi," Tristan greeted them, his voice calm but carrying an edge of weariness. "Do I know either of you?"

"No," Detective Emily replied with a professional smile. "I'm Detective Emily, and this is my partner, Detective James."

Tristan's jaw clenched slightly, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of annoyance flashing behind his otherwise controlled demeanor. "Found anything about my son?"

"No," Detective James answered, his tone apologetic but firm. "Not yet."

"Then why are you here?" Tristan's voice grew cold, the hint of frustration threading through his words. It was clear he wasn't in the mood for pleasantries.

"Sorry to interrupt your breakfast," Detective Emily said with a small shrug, her smile unshaken. "But we need you to come with us to the station to answer a few questions regarding your son's disappearance and the murder of Mrs. Hermione Porter."

I felt the blood drain from my face. My heart stopped for a beat. The words hit me like a physical blow. I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

"Excuse me?" Tristan's voice was edged with disbelief. He raised one brow, as if trying to understand the absurdity of it all.

"It won't take long, I promise," she continued, her smile firm, rehearsed, as if trying to calm the storm she'd just unleashed.

Tristan didn't move, but his gaze hardened. "Okay, but I'm calling my lawyer first."

"Sure," Detective James said, nodding curtly. "You can do that."

Before I could process everything, I stepped forward, my mouth moving before my brain had caught up. "I'm coming with you."

Tristan's eyes locked onto mine. "No," he said, his voice low, yet firm. "Stay here. You're not feeling well."

"I'll be back soon."

I watched him leave with the detectives. As the door clicked shut behind them, the emptiness of the house seemed to expand, the silence more oppressive than before. I turned away, the weight of everything crashing down on me, and made my way back to the room, my appetite long gone. The food, the space, everything felt meaningless.

I lay back on the bed, my mind a whirl of worry and fear. I tried to push the thoughts of what was happening to Kayden out of my head, but the darkness pressed in too tightly. Tristan had promised we'd find him. But I couldn't help but wonder if, in the end, we were too late.

∆

Tristan came back in the afternoon, his presence filling the room with a weight I couldn't quite shake. He didn't say much, only that the detectives had wanted to know his whereabouts on the night of the crime. His words were clipped, matter-of-fact, but there was a quiet undercurrent to his tone that spoke volumes. The weariness in his eyes—etched deep from hours of questioning—told me everything I needed to know. He was unraveling, just like I was.

I forced myself to eat lunch, though the food sat heavy in my stomach, tasteless and uninspiring. Tristan had dragged me to the dining room, his hand gently coaxing me from the bed, and I didn't argue. What was the point in refusing? I was too tired to fight anymore. My mind was consumed with thoughts of Kayden—where was he? What was happening to him? Was he scared? Cold? Hungry?

I could feel the seconds slipping by like sand through my fingers, each one taking me further from the moment Kayden had been taken. My phone sat in front of me, the screen dim, but I couldn't stop checking it—refreshing the page, searching for any word, any sign. I kept hoping for a message, a clue, anything that would lead me to him. But there was nothing. Silence. And the weight of that silence was becoming unbearable.

From the kitchen, I could hear Tristan's deep voice, low and calm, as he spoke to Morris. I didn't know what they were making, but the rich aroma drifting into the room was enough to make my stomach growl—still, I didn't care. Nothing tasted right anymore. Nothing felt right. All I wanted was Kayden, but all I had were these empty moments.

I stared at the large TV screen, trying to keep my eyes on the news, desperate for some shred of information about my son. I picked up my phone and went to the Facebook page I'd created for his disappearance. I scrolled through post after post, but it was the same: no updates, no new developments. My chest tightened, and I let out a frustrated sigh, running my fingers through my hair.

It was then that the doorbell rang, sharp and insistent—more than a ring, it was like a demand. Whoever it was had no patience, and I felt a flare of irritation rise within me.

Before I could even get up, Morris was already out of the kitchen, moving quickly toward the door. "Miss Simpson?" he called, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency.

"Yes, Morris?" I answered, my tone thick with the weight of the day.

"I think you need to see this," he said, stepping aside to reveal a small figure standing in the doorway. 

"Kayden?"

There he was—standing in the doorway, looking as small and innocent as ever, with a rainbow candy in his hand, the vibrant swirls of color bright against his tiny fingers. His blue sweater and jeans seemed like something pulled from a dream, a picture of normalcy I thought I'd lost forever. His eyes locked onto mine, and before I could even take a breath, he called out my name in the sweetest, most familiar voice.

"Mommy!"

I didn't even think. My feet moved before my brain could catch up, and within seconds, I was kneeling in front of him, arms wide, pulling him to me with a force that felt like I'd never let go. The world around us seemed to pause for a heartbeat—there was only his warmth, his soft giggle, and the beating of my frantic heart.

"Oh my God, it's you. You're back," I whispered, my voice cracking as tears flooded my eyes. I held him so tightly I thought I might break him, my hands trembling as they ran through his messy hair. He giggled, his tiny arms wrapping around my neck in return, oblivious to the storm of emotions crashing through me. He was safe. He was here.

I pulled back for a moment, just enough to look at him—really look at him—taking in the familiar roundness of his cheeks, the way his eyes sparkled with that mischievous gleam, the way his candy clung to his fingers. He was here. My baby was here. Alive.

Before I could lose myself in the overwhelming relief of it all, Morris appeared in the doorway with his usual calm expression. "I will inform Mr. Sanchester," he said with a soft smile, his words almost drowned out by the thudding of my heart.

I nodded absentmindedly, too focused on the little boy in my arms to acknowledge him fully. As Morris left, my eyes searched the space outside, desperate to understand how this had happened—who had brought Kayden home.

The door had just been opened. There was no one around. I felt a tight knot form in my chest.

"Who...?" My voice faltered, the question hanging in the air, but the only answer was the warmth of Kayden's giggle as he nuzzled into my embrace, clearly happy to be back in my arms.

"My baby," I whispered through a stream of tears, pressing my lips to his soft cheeks, his forehead, his little hands. The kisses were frantic, desperate, as if I could erase the weeks of worry, the nights of wondering if I would ever see him again. His laughter filled the air, pure and unburdened, as he tilted his head back, giggling, not understanding the magnitude of the moment. But I did. Every single second of it.

"Cassie?"
I heard Tristan's voice from behind.

There was a gunshot when I turned to look at him.

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