The morning arrived without mercy. Ann knew it before she opened her eyes. There was a heaviness in the air, a crushing stillness that pressed down on her chest as though the world itself was holding its breath. She lay motionless beside Oliver, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
For a brief, foolish moment, she pretended none of it was real. Then she remembered.
Davis. Her chest tightened violently, and she gasped, sitting upright. Oliver stirred immediately. "Ann?" She pressed a hand over her mouth. "I thought… for a second… I thought I was waking up from a nightmare."
He sat up too, rubbing his eyes. "I wish it was." Her voice trembled. "What if today is the day they find him?" Oliver reached for her hand. "They will." "You don't know that," she whispered. "No," he admitted. "But I believe it." She searched his face, desperate for certainty. "You're not just saying that to keep me calm?" "I'd never lie to you," he said firmly. She nodded, clinging to his words like a lifeline. The phone rang at exactly 8:12 a.m. Ann lunged for it before Oliver could.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Mrs Author," the officer said, his tone carefully neutral. "We need you to come in again." Her heart sank. "Is this about the shoe?" "There have been… developments." She swallowed hard. "Is my son alive?"Silence. Oliver gently took the phone. "We're on our way." Ann stood there frozen, her limbs refusing to cooperate.
"Ann," Oliver said softly. "Get dressed."
Her lips trembled. "I don't want to hear bad news." "I know," he replied, guiding her gently. "But we have to." The drive was quiet.
Too quiet. Ann stared out the window, watching buildings blur past. Every street looked the same. Every face felt distant.
"Do you remember," she said suddenly, "how Davis used to cry when you trimmed his hair?" Oliver smiled faintly. "He said the clippers were monsters." "He would scream so loudly," she said, her voice breaking. "And then five minutes later, he'd be laughing like nothing happened." Oliver tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "He's a brave boy."
"Yes," she whispered. "He is." At the station, the mood was different. Somber. Muted.
Ann noticed it immediately ,the lowered voices, the careful glances, the way no one met her eyes for too long. Her heart began to pound. They were led into a different room this time. Larger. Colder. The officer sat across from them, hands folded. "Mrs Author," he began slowly, "we found a location early this morning." Ann leaned forward. "Where?" "A wooded area, about forty kilometers outside the city."
Oliver spoke first. "What was found?" The officer exhaled. "Evidence consistent with prolonged presence." Ann's stomach twisted. "Just say it." "There were signs of a struggle," he continued gently. "And… a child's belongings." Ann's vision blurred. "But not his body." The officer hesitated.
"Answer me," she demanded. "No," he said quietly. "Not yet." Relief flooded her chest so suddenly she began to sob. "Oh thank God," she cried. "Thank God." Oliver wrapped his arms around her. "See? There's still hope."
"Yes," she repeated desperately. "There is, I have money...lots...lots of it. I can give them everything but please I need my son" she cried. Oliver held her gently, reassuring her. By afternoon, the house was filled with people. Relatives. Friends. Well-wishers.
Ann barely registered them. She sat curled up on the couch, Davis' blanket clutched in her arms. Aunt Margaret knelt in front of her. "Sweetheart, you need to eat something."
"I can't," Ann whispered. "You'll make yourself sick." "I already am," she replied softly. Oliver hovered nearby, refusing to leave her side. "Let her be," he said quietly. "She'll eat when she's ready." Margaret sighed and stood. That night, Ann wandered into Davis' room again. She picked up his pajamas, pressing them to her face. "Come home," she whispered. "Please come home." Oliver stood behind her. "Ann…"
She turned suddenly. "Do you think he's scared?" Oliver paused. "Maybe."
"Do you think he thinks we abandoned him?"
"No," Oliver said quickly. "Never." Her eyes filled with tears. "I should be there with him."
Oliver held her as she broke down again.
Just before midnight, the phone rang.
Ann froze. Oliver answered.
"Yes… I see… we understand." He turned slowly toward her. "They want us to come in," he said. Her voice shook. "Again?"
"Yes." "Did they find him?" Oliver didn't answer immediately. "Oliver," she whispered. "Did they find my son?" "They found… a body," he said softly. The word shattered her.
"No," she said. "No." "They're not confirming yet," he added quickly. "They need identification." She shook her head violently. "It's not him." "Ann". "It's not him!" she screamed. The morgue was cold.
Unforgiving. Ann clutched Oliver's arm as they walked down the corridor. "I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't." "You don't have to look," he said gently. "I can" "No," she interrupted. "If it's my son… I need to see him." The attendant pulled back the sheet slowly. Ann stared. Her breath left her body.
The world collapsed inward. She let out a sound that didn't feel human. Oliver caught her as she crumpled. "It's him," she whispered brokenly. "That's my baby." Her scream echoed through the sterile halls as grief finally claimed her. And in that moment, Ann Smith died too. What remained was a woman hollowed out by loss , a woman standing at the edge of something dark, irreversible, and waiting.