Prologue

GRACE

N o one else on the pier today would know that she's been crying. Not unless they're giving her their undivided attention. The stoic expression she wears is enough to hide the emotional pain that lingers beneath the surface.

But I am paying attention.

Even from where I stand, a short distance from the grassy hill she sits upon, her back leant up against an old gumtree, I can sense the air of vulnerability surrounding her.

The way she dips her chin as she tucks an unruly curl behind her ear, the ever so subtle swipe of a lone tear from her cheek. These little signs are invisible to the preoccupied bystanders as they go on about their day, but then again, they don't have anything in common with this young, brave woman. And I am no doubt tuned into her body language because it's so like my own.

She isn't exactly how I pictured her to be. She's stunning, sure. More beautiful than I ever thought possible, but it's the trauma behind her light blue eyes that captures my attention the most. They bear witness to how this cruel world she's had to survive has shaped her.

My mind journeys back to that night. Her face plastered across the television screen, the mention of her name on every channel. The coloured assortment of vegetables scattered over my tiled kitchen floor between broken fragments of cornflower blue porcelain. I hadn't even heard the plate fall to the ground, my ears only registering the sound of her name as the news reporter vaguely detailed her alleged kidnapping.

I'd crumpled to my knees, an ache twisting through every sinew of muscle, bleeding through every vein. An ache that still exists even now. One I fear will never leave me.

This girl has been betrayed. Suffered at the hands of a violent man. One that she most likely had trusted at some point.

One that should have protected her.

Loved her.

And I had failed her too.

I'd prayed that she had someone in her corner.

Anyone.

Someone to help her through all the times that life had let her down. I'd wished with every fibre of my being that I could have made things different for her. That I could have waved a magic wand and made all the bad stuff go away. Knowing she was out there somewhere, possibly all alone, had terrified me.

But now I've found her. I've finally found her.

A young brunette approaches her, pausing to click on the brakes of the pram she pushes before sitting down at her side.

Her posture straightens instantly as she sits a little taller, a smile melting the chaos in those stormy grey irises. She laughs at something the brunette says, her strength evident as her uncertain frown disintegrates. My girl here's a fighter. It's in her blood after all.

A firecracker, just like her mother.

She pulls what looks like a sketchbook from her faded black backpack, turning the cover over in her lap. With the flick of her wrist, she releases the hair tie that holds her messy bun, and her curls fall around her shoulders in the same way that mine do. Her friend points at the page, admiration in her eyes.

A deep yearning tugs at me from within as the realisation sets in.

I need to know her.

I'm no longer content watching her from afar, but I've missed so many years of her life. I can't help but wonder whether too much time has passed, whether our lives are too different to merge.

That we're just a pair of strangers on opposing sides of a coin.

Two people bound by blood yet disconnected in life.

She doesn't owe me anything. I know that. I know there's a possibility she may not care to get to know me at all. But I need her to know that I'm here now.

I'm here now.

Please forgive me.

My dear, sweet Mackenzie.