style="font-size:15px;"> “I need my jacket,” he responded, the words as hard and crisp as the winter air.
“Right here.” His father-in-law, Brett, shoved past Rachelle, thrusting the jacket into his hands.
“Call nine-one-one. Report a kidnapping. The vehicle is a black Jeep. Newer model. Four-door. Heading toward Commercial Street.”
He ran to his car and sped out of the driveway, the tires kicking up gravel as he turned onto the paved road. A purse sat near the curb, a phone several yards away from it. He’d seen a woman and man struggling with one another as he’d rounded the side of the house. She’d been shoved into the Jeep. Everly wasn’t alone. That didn’t make the situation any better.
He’d already lost his wife, Diane, in gunfire from a drive-by shooting. She’d been eight months pregnant with Everly and her twin sister, Aria. The surgeon had been able to save the girls, but Diane’s injury had proven fatal.
The heartache of saying goodbye to his wife had brought him to his knees. He didn’t think he could survive losing one of his daughters, too.
He rounded the corner at the end of the street, taking the turn so fast, he wasn’t sure all the tires stayed on the ground. Commercial Street was quiet as the shops that were usually bustling with life were dormant and dark, though a few exterior lights illuminated doorways and outdoor eating areas. Diane had loved Provincetown. It had been her family’s summer home when she was growing up. Now that she was gone, her parents lived there nearly year-round. Henry and the girls visited often, and they always spent the weekend closest to Diane’s birthday in town.
This was that weekend.
He’d had a full docket at work, and he hadn’t been able to take Friday off. His in-laws had picked the girls up after school and made the three-hour drive. He had finally clocked out of work just before midnight. He’d almost spent the night in Boston. He’d been that tired, that ready for sleep. But the girls had been looking forward to their yearly breakfast on the winter-cold beach—blankets spread on the sand, the sun rising above the ocean. All of them bundled up and pink-cheeked, adults sipping coffee. Kids drinking cocoa.
He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them, so he’d made the long drive, stopping a few times to drink black coffee and wake himself up. What if he’d stayed in Boston? Would he have arrived in the morning and been the first to realize Everly was missing?
He shuddered, forcing away that thought, and the fear. He needed to stay focused on the task. Taillights gleamed in the distance, as the car ahead cruised through the business district at a pace that was probably just under the speed limit. The driver had no intention of being pulled over for speeding. If he made it to Route 6, it would be easy for him to find a place to pull off the road and hide. There were small towns dotting the Cape, and plenty of places for someone to disappear if he wanted to. Henry couldn’t let him. For Everly’s sake, and for the sake of the woman who’d been thrown in the Jeep with her, he had to stop the driver before he made it out of Provincetown.
He accelerated to a dangerous speed, whizzing past shops as he closed in on the fleeing vehicle. The driver must have realized he was being followed. He took a hard turn onto a side street, the back wheel bouncing over the sidewalk. Henry did the same, easing up on the accelerator as he rounded the turn.
The Jeep had slowed, as the driver navigated the narrow side street and headed south. Henry’s cell buzzed. He ignored it. The Jeep slowed more, turning into an alley that Henry had walked down dozens of times when he and Diane were dating.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his heart galloping, the pace fast and erratic. He’d held Diane’s hand at the hospital after the shooting and promised her that everything would be all right, and that no matter what, he’d take care of their daughters. When the surgeon had told him Diane was brain-dead, he’d sat by her side and told her how much she’d meant to him, how fortunate and blessed he’d been to have her in his life.
And he’d promised her that the girls would be fine.
That he’d make certain they had wonderful lives.
He’d promised that they would know who she was and how much they’d meant to her.
He’d spent nearly six years working to fulfill those promises. He refused to fail now. He refused to believe that Everly would be taken from him, that she’d disappear like so many other children had. That he’d spend the rest of his life searching the faces of strangers, hoping to see his daughter.
The Jeep cleared the alley and bounced onto Conwell Street. Henry followed, the traffic light at Route 6 glowing green. It turned red as the Jeep approached. The driver slowed and then stopped. Perhaps out of caution. Perhaps out of habit.
Henry was closing the distance between them, not trying to hide the fact that he was following. He’d let the guy know he’d been seen, that what he’d tried to do under the cover of darkness had been exposed.
The light turned green as Henry neared the back bumper of the Jeep. He thought about clipping it, but worried that Everly would be hurt.
As the Jeep turned onto the highway, the back door flew open and a woman jumped out, Everly clutched against her chest. She stumbled and fell, skidding across the pavement on her knees, her arms still tight around his daughter.
She was up in a flash, sprinting toward buildings that she probably hoped would offer her cover or a place to hide. Everly hadn’t moved. She was limp as a rag doll, bouncing against the woman’s shoulder.
Henry threw the SUV into Park and jumped out, racing after her. Not caring about protocol, about securing the perpetrator, about doing any of the things he’d been trained to do. He was only worried about how still Everly was. How quiet. How completely unlike the bubbly little girl he knew her to be.
“FBI! Slow down and let me help you,” he called as he sprinted after the woman.
She didn’t believe him, of course.
She’d been traumatized and was running for her life with a child in her arms. He doubted his words had even registered. He’d spoken to victims of violent crimes. He’d interviewed witnesses. He knew how difficult it was to process information when the brain was bent on survival.
He tried again. “Ma’am! Stop! Let me help you!”
She darted between two buildings and entered an alley much too narrow for a vehicle.
He was right behind her, catching up fast. His attention was on Everly’s arm, flopping against the woman’s back. He’d never seen his daughter unresponsive. She was always filled with energy and verve. Unlike her twin, she was outgoing and talkative, her mouth running as often and as fast as her nearly six-year-old feet.
“Everly!” he called as he finally caught up to the woman. He grabbed her narrow shoulder, yanking her backward.
She whirled toward him, her arms wrapped around his daughter, her eyes wide with fear.
“Back off,” she panted.
“I’m her father,” he responded, dragging her farther away from the opening of the alley.
“You said you were with the FBI,” she replied, trying to pull away.
“I am.”
“You
