Page 132 of Daddies on Ice

Everything around me—Carl’s sharp intake of breath, Jake’s muttered curse, Ash’s protective stance—fades into background noise as the full implications of Becky’s words hit me.

Mica. Somehow, impossibly, Mica is here.

48

TISH

My blood turns to ice in my veins as Becky’s innocent words echo in my mind.

The description she gives of a tall man with curly blonde hair and light blue eyes describes Mica exactly.

But that’s impossible. He’s supposed to be locked away for years still.

“Mommy, why do you look scared?” Becky asks, her small hand tugging on my sleeve. “The nice man said you knew he was watching us. He said it was okay.”

My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.

Carl’s strong hand finds my shoulder, his touch grounding me even as panic threatens to consume me.

Jake moves closer, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something fierce and protective.

Ash’s jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle ticking, his brown eyes dark with barely contained rage.

“I need to make a phone call,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

My hands shake as I pull out my phone and dial the prison’s information line.

The automated system picks up, and I navigate through the menu with trembling fingers.

“Please hold while we connect you to an operator,” the mechanical voice says.

The wait feels eternal. Carl’s thumb strokes gentle circles on my shoulder while Jake positions himself protectively in front of me and the girls.

Ash paces like a caged animal, his fists clenched at his sides.

“State Correctional Facility, how can I help you?” a bored-sounding woman finally answers.

“I need to verify the status of an inmate,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Mica Torrino, prisoner number…” I recite the numbers I memorized years ago, the ones that represented my freedom.

There’s typing on the other end, then a pause that stretches too long. “Ma’am, that inmate was released on December 15th.”

The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

December 15th. Weeks ago.

All this time, while I’ve been falling in love, building a new life, feeling safe, he’s been out there. Watching. Waiting.

“Trisha,” Carl’s voice is gentle but urgent as he retrieves my phone. “What did they say?”

“He’s out,” I whisper, the words feeling like broken glass in my throat. “He’s been out since December 15th.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Even the girls seem to sense the shift in atmosphere, moving closer together on the hotel room couch.

“But the system still showed him as incarcerated,” Ash says, his voice deadly quiet.

I call back, my hands steadier now that the initial shock is wearing off, replaced by a familiar survival instinct I thought I’d never need again.

This time I get a different operator, one who sounds more competent.