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I squint through the myriad of flashing lights.

Cameras snap and click.

But I’m not on a runway. I’m not in a studio with professional photographers and made-up models. No galas, no champagne, no expensive gowns and glitzy high heels.

I’m being carted up a sidewalk in a wheelchair toward a hospital door, while reporters ambush me. Cupping a hand over my forehead, I glance left and right. They’re everywhere.

It’s blinding.

“Everly Cross!”

“How do you feel?”

“Mrs. Cross! What happened to you?”

“Where have you been?”

“Was this a media stunt?”

The last question has me jumping out of my chair. An EMT grips me by the shoulder, pushing me back down, but I resist and scramble free. I fly out of the wheelchair and storm over to the sea of cameras, my bare feet scuffing on the pavement.

“Ma’am, let’s get you inside,” the EMT calls over to me.

I ignore him. Indignation burns my blood as I drink in the eager faces. Microphones are shoved at me.

“A statement, please,” says a brunette with a prim bun, red lips, and black glasses.

I blink slowly. Processing.

My stomach cramps, my body weak. A fever threatens, but my fury is louder. “This wasn’t a stunt .” Everyone goes silent, save for the clicking cameras. “I was held captive. Used and operated on by horrible people. Monsters.”

A slew of follow-up questions pour out.

“Who were they?”

“How did you survive?”

“Are there other victims?”

Before I can respond, Jasper is by my side, tugging me away from the overzealous crowd.

“Everly, let’s go. You look like you’re about to collapse.” He ushers me away, using his body to shield me from dizzying camera flashes. “It’s not the time for a statement.”

“They…they think I was faking it.”

“Let them. It doesn’t matter.”

I’m guided back to the wheelchair and pushed through the mechanical door. Jasper shoos away his own wheelchair and takes my hand, holding on to me as I’m wheeled through hallways, my heart in my throat.

He swipes a hand over his dirt-smudged face, then flicks his attention to me. “I'm sure you have questions, too.”

My eyes water as I squeeze his hand. “I saw you get shot. You weren’t moving, barely breathing. I was told you were dead.”

“Felt like I was. I barely survived.” Shaking his head, he stares down at his staggering feet, his throat rolling. “And for a long time, I wished the bullet had taken my life because I couldn’t fathom living a life without you.”

Our eyes meet for a hollow beat as I’m trekked through the hallway. “How long was your recovery?”

His jaw ticks through the pain. “Eternal,” he says bleakly. “But now you’re back, so maybe there’s an end in sight.”

Our hands squeeze again, paralleling the feeling in my heart.

I can’t help but glance around as we approach my room, searching for a man with dark hair. I spot someone, late thirties, with inky black hair long enough to tease his shoulders. My eyes flare as I jolt upright, twisting my neck to get a better view.

He looks at me.

And I know it’s not him.

He’s too skinny, too short. His eyes aren’t brown.

I deflate.

Soon I’m pushed through a powder-blue curtain and deposited in a small room. My gown is replaced by a new gown made of itchy cotton and translucent buttons. Jasper pulls a chair over to my cot as I dive underneath the covers, my teeth chattering. The adrenaline peters out, leaving me boneless, and I feel the fever raging in my bloodstream. Pain commandeers my lower abdomen, causing me to hiss as I curl my knees to my chest.

“Everly.” My husband’s voice is soothing as the sound of my name pitches with a raspy hitch. He cradles my palm in two hands and leans over, pressing his chin to his clasped fist.

My eyelids flutter as I try to center myself, try to overcome the pain. A nurse floats over to my bedside, fiddling with machines and wires. I hardly feel the needle slide into the back of my hand. “I missed you…so much.” I feel myself fading. I don’t want to go. “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Did you miss me, too?” Exhaustion waters down my words, carrying me away. I hold Jasper’s hand. My anchor.

“More than you know.”

His words are a backdrop to better dreams.

I’m alive.

I’m here.

I’m free…

I drift awake sometime later, thinking I’m in my white-walled cell. Fluorescent overhead lights tickle my eyes as I rub away the fog, fighting for a full breath. I hear a beeping noise. Rustling sounds. Faraway whispers.

A voice.

“Sweetheart?”

My eyes ping open, my heart doing cartwheels between my ribs. A paneled ceiling comes into view, and I’m scared to look left. I’m terrified this bubble will pop and I’ll be… there .

Warm fingers tangle with mine.

Everything comes rushing back to me.

It’s real.

She’s real.

“Mom?” My head turns, and my gaze lands on my mother. My beautiful, teary-eyed mother. Golden hair is peppered with silver, pulled up in a loose twist. Crow’s feet frame her sunken-in eyes as she stares at me in dumbstruck wonder. “Mom…”

She launches herself at me, draping her body over mine.

We cry together. Two years’ worth of bottled-up tears.

My frail arms encompass her larger body as she shakes above me, her grief and love dampening the curve of my neck. She’s put on weight.

She’s stunning.

“Oh, Everly.” She presses a kiss to my collarbone before lifting off me. “Am I hurting you? God, I’m sorry, I?—”

“No, you’re not hurting me.” My voice is low and cracked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

She holds me at arm’s length, studying every crease, every pocket of exposed emotion that filters across my face. “My baby girl,” she whispers. “You’re alive.”

I send her a delirious nod, more tears pouring out. “I’m alive.”

“I never doubted it. Not for a goddamn second.” Giving me a little shake, she hugs me again, and we stay like that. Chest to chest, heart to heart. I let her life force warm me. A mother’s love. When she inches back up minutes later, she cups my cheeks in her hands as multicolored rings and baubles press into my skin. “Look at you, honey. Just look at you.”

My bottom lip wobbles. “Do I look different?”

I haven’t even glanced in a mirror.

I’m thinner; I know that much. But are my eyes still blue? Or have they dulled to a miserable shade of gray? Is my hair thinning? Falling out? My skin must look sickly. I don’t think I’d recognize myself.

“You look perfect.”

A smile crests, the first smile I’ve worn since my hand was last pressed to a wall. My mom is here. This moment is everything I could want and more.

She scoots closer to the bed, taking my hand again. “You don’t have to tell me anything. Not yet.” A thumb dusts across my knuckles. “Take all the time you need.”

Time.

I don’t need any more time.

All I need is right now.

I tell her everything. Everything I recall, from the harrowing, gruesome ins and outs of my captivity to The Timekeeper and his horde of evil minions. The egg transfers. The men and women who appeared on the other side of the wall, only to vanish into thin air.

Mom has always been the best listener. She’d tell me that all a person ever truly wanted was to be heard. So, she made it an artform, her own special love language. There’s solace in her silence, and it fuels my words and pain-steeped stories.

When my strength is depleted and my voice is raw, she climbs into the small bed with me and curls an arm around my waist. I prop myself up against two stacked pillows and glance down at her fingers as they graze the length of my arm, wrist to elbow. My mother loves jewelry. Rings, bracelets, necklaces. There’s a new jewel circled around her index finger that catches my eye. It’s shaped like a dragonfly. “What’s this?” I touch my fingertips to the gold and cerulean ring with curiosity.

She glances at it, wiggling her finger. “It reminded me of you. Your love for insects.” She smiles. “Dragonflies represent resilience and change. It kept me grounded. Close to you.”

My eyes water through a nod.

“I never believed you were dead, Everly.” Her chin lifts, gaze connecting with mine. “Never. Lost, yes…but not gone. I would have known. I would have felt it.”

Mom is the intuitive type.

She loves nature, crystals, incense.

When I was stressed, she’d tell me to stand outside in the grass, barefoot. When I was sad, she’d encourage me to hug a tree and breathe in the crisp bark. Nature is a healer, she’d say. It’s our essence. For years, I had none of that. No sunlight, no grass blades, no flowers stretching toward an open sky. I became a hollow shell.

Heaving in a frayed breath, I look up at the ceiling and think of Jasper. The snap. The clipped tether. I’d convinced myself he was dead because I felt him leave me. It was a bone-deep dread that consumed me for months.

But he’s alive.

My instincts were wrong. The truth couldn’t reach me inside of that place.

“Have you talked to Allison?” I wonder, reaching for my mother’s hand. She stiffens a bit. “Does she know?”

Mom nods slowly. “Yes. She’s in the waiting room. They would only allow one person in at a time.”

“I missed her.”

“She missed you. Terribly.”

I swipe away a stray tear. “Have you stayed in touch?”

“Of course. We’ve had coffee dates, shopping trips, lunches out on the patio. Less frequently, lately…”

Swallowing, I close my eyes. “Why?”

She doesn’t reply for a while. Then she whispers, “She’s been busy.”

“Can I see her?”

“Sure.” Mom untangles herself from my arms and stands, smoothing out her blush-hued blouse. “I’ll send her in.”

She leaves the room, and I pull the starchy blanket up to my chin. Seconds tick by, turning into minutes.

Ninety-two, ninety-three…

I push my hair off my face, tucking it under my head. When I lay back down, something pokes at my scalp.

My eyes round.

The guitar pick.

A tsunami of emotion hurls into my chest as I sit up straight and drag my fingers through my giant mess of hair, searching for the priceless treasure. It’s still secured, just barely. Tangled in a few loose strands. Wincing, I slowly pull it free, my heartbeats skipping as it comes into view inside the palm of my hand. A shimmering blue teardrop.

Sara’s.

His.

I make it my mission to find him.

I won’t give up, won’t stop looking—not until I’ve memorized the shape of his eyes and the curve of his lips. Isaac is still alive, and this guitar pick is meant for him.

I’ll track him down.

Tell him I’m sorry.

And then we’ll both make music again.

The curtain shuffles, and I reach behind me to tuck the pick underneath my pillow, just as a shock of familiar auburn hair catches my eye.

Allison stands at the edge of my bed. Eyes huge. Freckled cheeks glistening with tears.

My best friend.

“Ev…” She takes a cautious step forward, almost like I’m a mirage she’s terrified to watch dissipate before her eyes. “God…it’s really you.”

I hold out my hand, needing to feel her. To hold her. “Allison.”

“Ev,” she croaks again before rushing forward. She collapses against me, sobbing into my hair. “You’re real. You’re alive. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I close my eyes and inhale her scent. Lilacs and vanilla. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I d-didn’t fight…hard enough.” More sobs, more desperate squeezes. “You were alive…this whole time.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.” Another firm hug. “Some mornings I would wake up believing you were still alive, lost, waiting for us to find you, and the guilt would sucker-punch me. Crush me, body and soul. And then I’d go to sleep at night, deciding you were floating somewhere among the stars, looking down on me. At peace.”

It’s funny how everyone’s perspective has been so different. Jasper thought I was dead. Mom was convinced I was alive. Allison was riddled with uncertainty, torn in both directions.

Loss is so subjective.

And disappearances are a specific kind of loss. No closure, no answers. Just a gaping hole of unknowns and heartache.

Death is easier. Death is tangible.

Loose ends are just tragic, the threads dangling forever out of reach.

I can’t imagine how it’s been for any of them. I watch through blurry eyes as Allison sits up, perched at the edge of my mattress. Her normally tanned skin is sallow. Sapped of life. I want to bring the color back to her cheeks. “Tell me what I’ve missed,” I prompt, reaching for her hand.

Her eyes drift closed, a swallow catching in her throat. “So much. Everything.”

“Did you break up with Erik?”

Erik was the man she was seeing at the time of my abduction. They’d been on the outs after a seemingly disastrous vacation in Belize. I still remember our playful text messages that night. Our final conversation.

Allison curls her thin reddish hair behind her ears and bobs her head. “Yes. It was over the moment we landed at the airport. I broke up with him at baggage claim.”

“The irony.”

She forces a light laugh. “Yeah.” Casting her gaze away, she rubs her lips together. “Your mom has been a rock for me. She’s a piece of you…a beautiful piece. She took me under her wing, and we grieved together. There was comfort in that.”

“I’m glad,” I say softly. “I’m glad you were there for each other.”

“Are you going to stay with your mother for a while, until you get back on your feet?” She glances at me, her eyes wide and glossy.

I frown. “Oh…well, I figured I’d move back into my house.”

She nods. “Right…right, of course. That’s a good plan.”

A sickly thought coils through me. “Are my things still there? My clothes? Personal items?” I hadn’t considered the notion that Jasper may have donated my things. Sold them. Discarded them. He thought I was dead, so I wouldn’t hold it against him. Still, my stomach pitches at the thought. “It’s okay if he did. I can start over.”

“No, no, he didn’t.” Her hand tightens on my fingers. “Everything’s in storage. Your mother wouldn’t let him get rid of anything. But…” She trails off, worries her lip between her teeth. “It was painful for him. Living in that house all alone, surrounded by your memory, your magic sprinkled into every room. It was…too much. I hope you understand.”

My throat burns. “I get it. We can all start over.” My eyes glaze over as I send her a melancholy smile. “Together.”

Pain coasts across her pretty face. Raw, physical pain. “Together,” she whispers back.

We spend the next hour catching up, starting over, telling stories, and weaving endings into new beginnings. For a moment, it feels like old times. Giggles break through. Tears of joy and belly laughter. She tells me about the three puppies she adopted, a bonded trio—Pepper, Jack, and Cheese. I scroll through images on her phone, a genuine smile brimming with life. It sticks.

This is what I missed.

This is what I craved.

And now I have a second chance.

It’s finally time to live the life I dreamed about for two painful years.