74. Reaching Out

CHAPTER 74

Reaching Out

WREN

She falls asleep almost instantly, her body giving in to three days without rest. I keep my arm around her waist while checking messages.

Monty: They're onto us. Those explosions bought you time but they've figured out it was a diversion.

Monty: Feds are PISSED. Sweeping the woods where we set off the fireworks.

Monty: Getting the hell out before they connect us to it. Going dark.

That last one was sent almost an hour ago. I don't reply. I'll reach out once we're in a safer position.

The motel room exists in a separate reality from the federal agents prowling my property. My nerves spark with each breath, danger heightening every sensation. Plans cascade through my mind, each bleaker than the last. The clock ticks forward. This temporary sanctuary can't last. We can't vanish into endless hotels. They’ll find us eventually. She needs leverage. Something to force Miller to retreat, to abandon his mission of dragging her back into witness protection.

My fingers curl into fists. We're running out of options. Running out of time. We need something stronger, something that will stop them in their tracks. The kind of force that Miller will have no choice but to respect. Leverage. Power. What I need—what she needs—lies behind a door I swore I'd never open again.

My father's influence. His power. His connections .

Bile rises in my throat at the thought.

My grandmother would have seen straight through my hesitation. She understood power in a way my father never could—not from boardrooms and bank accounts, but from years of disciplining her body into an instrument of precision. A principal dancer who bent the world to her will through sheer determination.

"Power lives in the control," she'd say, her posture still perfect even in her seventies. "In knowing exactly when to hold firm and when to yield."

I ease away, transferring my weight inch by inch to preserve her peace. She mumbles, fingers seeking the warmth I abandoned. I pause until her breathing deepens again. Even now, my mind catalogs every subtle shift in her breathing, every minute change in her expression. Old habits. Necessary ones.

The lamp casts shadows across the room. Dark hair spills across the pillow, her features softened by sleep. She exists beyond the ordinary world, every worry erased. She chose to lower her defenses beside me, and that knowledge breaks another chain holding me hostage.

My phone is like lead in my palm. The screen illuminates my father's contact information, mocking me. Each number a reminder of every time I deleted it, only to memorize it again. Just in case. Always just in case.

My thoughts go to the house I left just hours ago. It’s empty without my grandmother's presence. Her laughter used to echo through those rooms, filling the void my parents left. She attended every school event, every award ceremony, while they sent their excuses. She built traditions—Sunday brunches in the garden, evening stories in the library, impromptu dance classes in the ballroom. She taught me to appreciate discipline, dedication. To recognize the strength it takes to make something difficult appear effortless.

But she couldn't teach me how to prepare for losing everything in an instant. The morning of her stroke, she'd been perfectly fine. Dancing in her studio the way she did every day. By afternoon, everything had changed. I spent the next six months trying to find a way to bring back the woman I remembered—memorizing medical terms, tracking vital signs, researching treatments. As if understanding it all could somehow change the outcome.

Their responses never varied, no matter how critical her condition became.

I have a crucial meeting.

The board won't wait.

The doctors know what they're doing. We’ve given our lawyer power of attorney, so he will sign whatever they need.

Each phrase became another crack in my foundation. Each broken promise another brick in the wall I built around myself.

Money materializes in my account regularly, their sole acknowledgment of my existence. Sterile. Empty. Financial transactions masquerading as parenthood.

My hand shakes a little as I stare at his number. It’s been seven years since my grandmother died, seven years since the last time I asked him for anything. Seven years of distance and meticulous control over every aspect of my life.

The east wing remains untouched, her legacy preserved exactly as she left it. Photographs from her performing years. The barre where she'd practiced that final morning. Her old pointe shoes, pink satin worn to gray. The music box that still plays Swan Lake, though I haven't wound it since the funeral.

I remember standing alone by her grave, eleven years old and finally understanding what she had protected me from all those years. Father left halfway through the service for a board meeting. Mother disappeared to freshen up, never returning.

The last time I'd seen my grandmother smile was watching a performance the week before her stroke—Giselle, her favorite. She'd gripped my hand during the mad scene, tears in her eyes. Three days later, she collapsed in her studio. Six months of watching her fade followed that, while my father treated her death like another business merger to manage.

That’s when I learned how to find everyone’s secrets. The need to know everything, manage everything, predict everything became an obsession. As if perfect vigilance could prevent another unexpected loss. As if enough preparation could stop the world from shattering again.

My thumb hovers over his name. Nausea coils in my gut. Every instinct screams to find another way. Any other way. I've spent seven years ensuring I'd never be that helpless again.

But there isn't one.

For Ileana, I'll swallow this poison. For her, I'll break every vow I made to myself about never needing him again.

The screen blurs. When did I last speak to him? Three weeks ago? Four? A meaningless exchange about college applications destined for the trash. His attention divided, meetings beckoning. Perpetual distractions. Just like when she was dying in the hospital, and he couldn't be bothered to visit more than twice in six months. I was collected by the family lawyer, or his secretary, every couple of days to go and see her.

My grandmother's voice whispers through memory.

"Forgiveness isn't about them, darling. It's about freeing yourself."

I never managed that part. Never wanted to. Instead, I built myself into someone who needed nothing, no one. Someone who could predict and prevent every possible loss.

But his influence could end this siege. His power could shield Ileana. For the first time since my grandmother's death, I need something only he can provide. The knowledge burns like acid in my throat.

I press call before I can change my mind. Two rings that feel like forever.

"Wren? It's the middle of the night."

Bewilderment colors his voice. His ghost of a son, materializing at midnight. Acid churns in my stomach. Independence became my armor after losing my grandmother. She taught me to stand tall, but she also taught me to acknowledge when I needed something beyond what I could control.

"I need your help."

There’s a long pause, tension crackling in the air between us. When he finally speaks, there’s a subtle hint of alarm in his voice. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"Federal agents have been watching the house. They've been here for days."

"The missing girl situation?" His voice transforms to corporate authority, his natural state. "They contacted me. Said you were interfering in an ongoing investigation."

"Yeah. But they omitted the essential details." I brace myself against memories of all the times he's dismissed my words. "She's eighteen. Left their protection willingly. Now they want to cage her again. It's wrong." I keep my explanation purposely clipped.

"Explain." Years of absence compress into one word.

Air fills my lungs as I tell him everything I know. About the agents who manufactured new identities for James, Annetta, and Isabella sixteen years ago, how they rewrote her entire existence, and their determination to imprison her again despite her desire for freedom.

The void between words aches until his voice returns. "You're certain about this?"

"Yes. I have evidence. Paper trails, financial records. Everything they want buried."

I can almost hear him considering his options, weighing risks against this unprecedented request from his perpetually independent son. My grandmother's voice whispers in my memory.

"Your father loves you, my darling. He just never learned how."

"And the girl?" An unfamiliar note enters his voice. "Who is she to you?"

I glance at Ileana. She’s shifted slightly, curling toward the space I left behind. The lamp’s glow highlights a faint bruise on her temple, a reminder of everything she’s endured.

“She’s everything.” The words carry echoes of what my grandmother once promised me—protection, understanding, unconditional support.

"She’ll be staying with you?"

"Yes."

"Is that her choice?"

"Yes."

The space between heartbeats expands, while more memories surface. Countless moments waiting, hoping he'd appear, that he'd choose presence over absence. My grandmother's hand on my shoulder.

"Come along, dear. I've made cocoa."

"Twelve hours. Stay hidden until I contact you."

"You'll help?" My voice betrays the vulnerability I’m trying desperately to ignore. My grandmother would have recognized the cost of this question.

A pause precedes his response, tinged with recognition. "You've never asked me for anything before. Not once."

"I'm asking now." The words taste like the tea she used to make whenever my parents broke their promises—chamomile with honey, served in her best china. I fucking hated it, but I loved what it meant.

His sigh bridges impossible distances. "I'll handle it, Wren. I promise."

Silence replaces his voice. The phone grows cold in my palm as I watch Ileana. She curves toward the empty space, fingers spread across the sheets. I strip out of my clothes and slide beneath the covers. Her body recognizes mine, melding against my side, head claiming its territory on my chest. My arms wrap around her.

Her trust resonates through my bones. Solitude defined my existence after my grandmother's death. Independence marked every choice. Yet here, as her fingers trace invisible patterns on my skin, her breath warming my neck, there’s one thing I’m certain about—I'll challenge the universe itself to make sure she keeps her freedom.

My phone lights up with a message from Nico.

Nico: We're ditching our phones. They know you got out during the chaos.

Me: Stay safe. Go dark. Get new phones. I'll handle it from here.

I drop it onto the mattress beside me, the screen dimming as I trace the outline of her lips. Her existence has realigned my world. Initial fascination became obsession, and evolved into fundamental necessity—compelling enough to shatter years of silence with my father.

My grandmother would have understood. She would have seen Ileana's worth instantly, probably had her settled in the library with tea and stories about the shows she’d danced in within minutes.

My eyes close, focused on her steady breaths. My arms tighten when her leg weaves between mine, her warmth anchoring me to this moment. For the first time since losing my grandmother, the emptiness in my chest feels less absolute.

Tomorrow, my father's authority will guarantee her safety. Tonight, I maintain vigil over her dreams. Each minute propels us toward resolution. Toward freedom in daylight.

Let Agent Miller exhaust himself searching for us. Tomorrow will teach him what a forgotten child, armed with his grandmother's wisdom and his father's power, will do to protect what matters.