Page 110 of The Voice We Find

It was impossible not to sense the cracking of his heart as he witnessed the miracle his sister portrayed on that stage. But it was equally impossible not to hope that this could be the beginning of something new for him and for the people he keeps in his orbit.

Emotion constricts my throat. I’m not one of those people anymore.

I’m the person he let go.

I’m the one he encouraged to board a plane in the wee hours ofthe morning tomorrow and try for a job that could keep us apart for more than a year.

It’s that last thought that has me deciding to skip the meet-and-greet in the lobby and the possibility of a run-in with the man I can’t seem to stop loving. Portia knows about my flight and the packing I have left to do. She also knows I’ve spent the last twenty minutes standing twenty feet from my ex-boyfriend while I fought to keep my composure during his sister’s beautiful performance.

Portia will understand.

She’s the one who loaned me Nick’s spare pickup truck after I returned August’s car to his driveway the day after we broke up.

I collect my bag from backstage and am out the back door in record time. My keys are in hand as I cross the parking lot when I hear the text tone coming from the zipped pocket in my purse. I hold my breath as I take my phone out, hoping in vain to see a name on my screen I haven’t seen in over three weeks.

But it’s not August. It’s Natalie.

Natalie:

I’m really sorry to bother you. I know you’re at the theater, but something happened at the charity event. It’s too much to text, but I’m at the police station. I’m okay and the baby is okay, but I could really use your support. Will you come?

Natalie:

I have to turn my phone off for a while. But here’s the address to the station. Tell the woman with the blue headscarf at the front desk that you’re looking for me.

Only two steps from the driver’s side door of Nick’s old pickup, tiny ice crystals form in my abdomen as I read through her texts a second time and then check for a voicemail. Nothing.

What on earth happened at that charity event?

There’s a slight shake to my hands as I unlock the doors and slipinside the truck cab. I tap the GPS link Natalie sent to the station, praying I have enough battery to make it all the way there before my phone dies. And then I pray that once I get there, I will be the support Natalie needs.

The only other time I’ve stepped foot inside a police station was to give a statement after the cellar attack when I was sixteen years old. But something tells me tonight will be different. Something tells me tonight will be worse.

Once I enter the front doors of the large brick building, I struggle to find a clear path through the chaos. The waiting area—if one can call it that—is oversaturated with people who clearly aren’t here for the fun of it. The pungent aroma of unpleasant body odors causes my gag reflex to kick in as I search for a desk on the other side of a rowdy group of adolescent boys arguing over a stolen Xbox and gaming paraphernalia.

“Boys!” a woman barks from somewhere behind them. “Take a seat. I won’t ask you again.”

As soon as they shove to the side, I spot her.

The woman with the blue headscarf and no-nonsense expression.

I approach the desk, and she makes no effort to disguise her appraisal of me. I can only imagine how out of place my stage makeup must look under these fluorescent lights.

“May I help you?” Her voice sounds as craggy as I imagined it.

“Yes, hello. My sister-in-law asked me to meet her here....” I look around the dirty room, making sure I haven’t missed her by accident. “Somewhere. She told me to check in with you.”

“Name?”

“My name is Sophie Wilder.”

The woman arches an eyebrow. “I meant the name of your sister-in-law.”

“Oh, right, of course.” I lean onto the counter. “Sorry, this is only my second time in a police station, and things are quite different than I remember.” At her beyond-bored expression, I swallow. “Her name is Natalie Wi—”

“Ms. Wilder.” The voice at my back is brisk but holds an edge of familiarity.

Slowly, I rotate.

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