The blue house looked alive from the outside—flowers on the porch, curtains breathing gently in the wind—but its life was not the happy kind. Just next door stood the two-story home of Iris, the place where she had fallen, the place where it had all begun.
Inside the blue house, life was not quiet. In the kitchen, a teenage girl knelt by the sink, pulling a cloth from the cabinet beneath it. She turned on the cold tap, letting water soak the fabric until it was heavy in her hands. Her brow was drawn, her movements deliberate. She left the kitchen and stepped into the sound—into the wailing, the frantic sobs, and the invisible weight pressing down on the living room.
On the couch sat a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and hair like a cloud that had lost its rain. She was holding a small girl—Sarah, Iris's daughter—against her chest. The child was shaking, sobbing, her voice raw from the strain of her own panic. The woman's arms wrapped around her like a desperate fortress.
"It's all right, niña, it's over. He's not coming for you... it's over, you're safe, you hear me? Safe. Safe..." Her voice was steady but pleading, as if she could anchor the girl with words alone.
But Sarah thrashed against her, her tiny fists clenching and opening as though she could claw her way to the truth. "Where's my mommy? Where's my mum?" she cried again and again, each repetition cutting deeper into the air, into the people who heard her.
The teenage girl approached and handed the damp cloth to her father, who knelt beside the woman. He pressed the cloth to Sarah's forehead, his voice softer, almost breaking.
"You're burning, Sarah... calm down. Your mother's all right."
"No! I want to see my mother!" she screamed, the words tearing out of her like sparks from a frayed wire. Again and again, the same plea.
The teenager had never seen anything like this. The sound of Sarah's voice was a constant, piercing noise—like static from an old television cranked to its loudest setting. Her hands flew to her head. She turned and climbed the stairs quickly, escaping into her bedroom.
She closed the door behind her. Pink walls. Posters of celebrities smiling forever in their frozen youth. A desk with a laptop and open notebooks sprawled across it, reminders of the ordinary world she had left downstairs. In the corner sat her phone. She snatched it up and called her best friend.
"You have no idea what just happened to me..." she said in a rush.
Her friend's voice came through, concerned. "You sound shaken. What's going on?"
"I don't even know exactly. My parents didn't tell me much when I got home from school. But apparently, the four-year-old daughter of my neighbor... she's gone completely crazy. Her mom had some kind of accident, and now she's here, in my house, and my head is going to explode. I've locked my door and I'm just staying here now. But you should see her—God, she's like a TV with nothing on but white noise, screaming and crying... I can't— I just can't."
"That sounds exhausting. Why is she even staying with you guys?"
"My parents said she has nowhere else to go, and the police themselves brought her here."
"And her dad?"
"I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. I just want her to leave so I can rest..." She let out a long sigh and sat down on the edge of her bed.
Her friend was quiet for a moment. Then, gently: "Like... she must be going through something awful. Her mom had an accident, right?"
"Yeah..." the girl said, her voice quieter now. "Yeah, she did."
The line went silent for a few seconds, but downstairs, the static still roared.
Down in the living room, the old man tightened his grip on the little girl, his arms straining to keep her still as she writhed like a hooked fish. He glanced over his shoulder at the weary woman beside him. She had finally pulled herself up from her knees, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
"You have to call someone," the man said, his voice low but edged with urgency. "We can't keep this up. We can't take care of her."
The woman hesitated, her gaze still on Sarah, who thrashed and whimpered in his hold. "I know," she said, "but do you know anyone she trusts? Anyone she actually knows?"
"No," he admitted. "But her grandparents might. Call them."
The girl's voice cut through their conversation like a knife. "Why won't you let me see my mom?!" she screamed, the words raw and sharp, carrying a desperation that seemed too big for her small frame.
The woman, now resolute, crossed the room in three quick steps and took the landline phone from its cradle. Her fingers dialed from memory. On the other end, a voice answered.
"Yes? Is this my daughter's neighbors?" Kimberly's tone was cautious, almost bracing herself.
"That's right," the woman replied. "We have Sarah here... she's—" The words faltered as the noise behind her rose, Sarah's cries unrelenting, pounding against the sofa like waves in a storm. "...she's completely traumatized. I don't know if—" She stopped mid-sentence, letting the distant sound speak for itself.
In her own home, Kimberly closed her eyes and pressed her free hand to her forehead. Jordan sat on the couch, watching her with quiet confusion, waiting for some explanation.
"Do you know anyone who could calm her?" the neighbor asked. "She doesn't know us, and she thinks she's been kidnapped. She's... sharp. Smarter than she lets on."
"I understand..." Kimberly said, her voice thin. "But we're far too old to care for a child like this." Her eyes began to glisten. "Still... we do know someone."
The woman's eyes widened, a faint spark of hope breaking through her exhaustion. "Can you bring him now?"
"Yes," Kimberly answered. "I'll try."
She hung up, and for a moment the Sarah's grandparents' house fell into a monstrous silence—the kind that makes the ticking of a clock feel deafening. Outside, the air pressed in, and somewhere far away, a dog barked once and was quiet again. The contrast between this oppressive stillness and the chaos that had just filled the line was stark enough to feel like a change in weather.
Slowly, Kimberly turned to Jordan. Her voice was almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of decision.
"Call Edwards."
Swift as an eagle gliding down through the air, Edwards moved with quiet purpose. In the stillness of his home, he plucked a set of keys from the kitchen counter. Beside them lay two phones—one ancient and untraceable, the other sleek and modern. He took neither.
Moments later, the engine of his car rumbled to life. He pulled away from the neighborhood, his hands steady on the wheel as the city streets gave way to the sprawling emptiness of the countryside. The countryroads stretched before him like an old, familiar scar—one he had traveled many times, each curve and dip etched into memory. Today, it felt like the road to truth.
For the first time in years, the old house came into view. Iris's house. It stood locked and silent, its secrets now picked apart by the patient hands of police investigators. Edwards slowed, parked quickly at the curb, and stepped out. The sunlight spilled across the sky, painting the blue of the neighboring house with a brilliance that almost felt intrusive.
He crossed the yard and rang the bell—three slow, deliberate seconds. The door opened to reveal the woman of the house. Her eyes carried both relief and fatigue.
"You've come for the girl?" she asked.
"I have," Edwards replied. "I'll do what I can."
The moment he stepped inside, two strides into the living room were enough to change the air entirely. Sarah, her small face flushed from hours of tears, turned toward him. In a heartbeat, she sprang from the couch with the force of a desperate tide.
"Mr. Edwards!" she cried. The sound was thick with relief, desperation, and something deeper—something no four-year-old should ever have to feel.
He dropped to one knee and caught her in his arms. "It's all right... it's all right... it's over," he murmured, his voice low, steady. "Your mother's fine, you hear me?"
She wept into his chest. The seconds stretched, the world holding its breath. Finally, she pulled back just enough to search his face.
"You promise?" she asked, her eyes wide, her voice trembling.
"Yes," he said without hesitation, though the truth was far more fragile. "I saw her, and she told me she wants you to be good while you're here with the neighbors." The lie was gentle, dressed in warmth, because Iris still lay in a hospital bed, her mind adrift in some unreachable place.
But Sarah's innocence—pure and untouched by the cold mechanics of reality—swallowed the falsehood whole. She smiled, a faint but genuine easing of her fear.
"Then... can I see her?"
"Sarah, your mother needs to rest, all right? You'll stay with me until she's better."
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and threw her arms around him again. "Promise me she'll be okay."
"I promise. And if she falls asleep again, we'll both go wake her up and give her a good scare. Deal?"
The corners of Edwards's mouth lifted in a smile, the kind that had always been a safe harbor for Sarah. She smiled back, and just like that, the chaos dissolved.
Upstairs, the teenage girl emerged from her room, leaning on the stair rail as she watched the scene unfold below. Surprise lingered in her eyes, but so did something softer—a smile she didn't yet understand.
Edwards carried Sarah slowly, her small frame cradled in one arm. She rested her head on his shoulder, her gaze lingering on the woman who had watched over her these past hours. For an entire day, Sarah's tears had been endless, each one carving its silent mark. Now, in Edwards's arms, her eyes held no more water—only the faint, raw traces of where grief had lived.
Outside, the fading light stretched long shadows across the street. Edwards opened the rear door of his car. On the seat, waiting like a silent sentinel, sat a teddy bear—worn, soft, and stained. He had picked it up only the day before, during his last bounty hunt, that strange trade of chasing men between the cracks of law and morality. A small reddish blotch marred the fabric, the kind of mark that whispered of stories better left untold.
He secured Sarah in her seatbelt and kissed her forehead.
"Will you be calm? Promise me," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Edwards..."
Her answer pulled a small smile from him. He closed the door, circled to the driver's seat, and started the engine. As they rolled away from the house, Sarah's eyes drifted upward to the bear above her, as if it were alive, watching over her.
She reached up, small hands stretching again and again, fingers brushing the air until at last she caught the bear and pulled it into her arms. Her palms were warm and flushed from crying, but she hugged it fiercely, as if it could shield her from every shadow in the world.
Then she noticed the stain. Tilting the bear in the amber light of the setting sun, she frowned.
"Why is there a red spot? Where did you get it?" she asked, her voice all innocence, her curiosity sharp but harmless.
Edwards paused, eyes narrowing slightly as his mind weighed the truth against the child's tender trust. His gaze flicked to the car ahead, cataloging its license plate, its color, its make—the instinctive habits of a man who hunted others for a living.
"It's an old toy I had," he said at last. "The color's just... faded over time."
Sarah didn't know enough of the world to question the lie. She nodded, satisfied, and pressed the bear to her chest. The sun's orange light bled into the mirrors, painting everything in a fragile warmth. One of the bear's eyes, loose and lopsided, seemed to tilt toward her ear, as if whispering a secret only she could hear: everything will be all right.
And in that moment, with the road stretching before them and the countryside swallowing the day's noise, Sarah smiled. The pain had not vanished, but it had been wrapped, if only for now, in the soft cloth of hope.
Sarah's pupils met the fading blue of the evening sky, a shade that bled slowly into crimson as the sun retreated beyond the hills. That quiet alchemy of colors held her gaze for a few moments—until weariness claimed her. The change in the sky was the last thing she saw before her eyelids sank like heavy curtains, sealing her away in the fragile refuge of sleep.
When Edwards pulled into the driveway, he stepped out without a sound, lifting her in the same arm that had carried her from the neighbor's home. She clung to his shoulder instinctively, as though it were the only anchor left in a sea she did not understand.
Inside, the house exhaled the stillness of absence. He pushed the door open, its hinges sighing like an old secret, and glanced at the second phone on the kitchen counter—the one with no traceable past. The cracked screen glowed faintly with a missed call:
"PAULIE"
Edwards's expression didn't change. He slipped the thought into the back pocket of his mind and carried Sarah to the guest room.
The room was painted in a deep emerald green, the color of hope preserved in stone—hope that refused to fade even when the world outside had gone grey. Through the small window, the last light of day spilled into the corners, chasing away the darkness. Edwards laid her on the bed, tucking the blanket gently around her. She gathered the fabric in her small hands, pulling it close, the way a sailor clutches a rope in a storm.
He stood there for a moment, studying her. The weight in his chest was heavier than the child in his arms had been. Now, for reasons the world would never guess, he had become the father of a girl who was never his. When life was still for the living, he thought, everything had been different. Everything had been green.
Before leaving the room, he let his gaze linger a second longer—on the peaceful curve of her face, the steady rise and fall of her breath—and then he stepped back into the dim hallway.
He left the room quietly, closing the door with care. Back in the kitchen, the two phones sat side by side—one clean, the other steeped in shadows. The legal world and the one beneath it, divided by a few inches of countertop.
He picked up the older phone.
"Everything's clean," Paulie's voice crackled through, distant yet sharp. Somewhere behind those words lay the scene of a crime Edwards knew too well—because his hands had shaped it.
"Perfect," Edwards replied. "I'll be there soon."
The call ended with a click that seemed to echo in the stillness.
TO BE CONTINUED...