Logan Reynolds
“I thought you said we’re going on vacation,” Missy says as she waddles toward her tiny suitcase, dragging it across the floor with dramatic effort.
“We are,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “Just you and me.”
She beams like it’s Christmas morning. “Can I bring my crayons?”
“Of course.”
She runs off to get them, singing that nonsense tune she always hums when she’s excited—half melody, half magic. I watch her carefully zip them into the side pocket like it’s treasure. Maybe to her, it is.
I’ve been calling it a vacation for her sake. But that’s not what this is. Not for me.
For me, it’s a last-ditch effort. A risk. A prayer.
Because I found her.
I found Viola.
A little house in a town with more trees than streetlights. Amirah didn’t give me the address—I had to find it myself. And I still don’t know what I’ll say when I see her. I just know I can’t stay away anymore. Not when every night in that empty house with Missy feels like I’m drowning in everything I destroyed.
So I
