Eli shook his head.
“He told Maisie there was a surprise near the old boathouse. She wanted me to come, but he told me to stay.”
“What happened next?”
“I followed them.”
His voice trembled.
“I saw Uncle Callum put Maisie into a car. She was crying and asking for you.”
I could barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Eli recoiled.
I immediately knelt beside him.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not angry with you.”
He began sobbing.
“He saw me. Uncle Callum said you’d disappear too if I told anybody.”
I pulled him into my arms.
For four years, we’d believed Eli’s silence came from witnessing an accident.
Now I understood that he’d been terrified into keeping a secret.
After a moment, he reached into his pocket.
“There’s something else.”
He handed me a folded photograph.
The girl in the picture stood outside a white house, wearing a blue sweater.
Her hair was longer, and her face had changed.
But those beautiful brown eyes were unmistakable.
Maisie.
My daughter.
Alive.
“Where did you get this?”
“Uncle Callum dropped it yesterday.”
Yesterday.
The photograph wasn’t an old keepsake.
Someone had taken it recently.
I turned it over.
An address was written on the back.
Beneath it were three words.
She remembers everything.
Before I could speak, my phone vibrated.
An unknown number had sent a message.
Stop questioning Eli.
Another appeared.
If you want your daughter alive, come alone.
Then a photograph arrived.
It showed Eli and me standing in my kitchen.
The picture had been taken through the window only moments earlier.
I spun around.
Across the street, beneath a streetlight, stood Callum.
He raised one finger to his lips.
Then he disappeared.
My phone rang.
I answered with shaking hands.
“Hello?”
For a moment, I heard only faint breathing.
Then a small voice whispered:
“Mommy?”
My knees almost gave way.
“Maisie?”
“Please don’t trust Daddy.”
I began crying.
“Sweetheart, where are you?”
“Mommy, I’m scared.”
“I love you. I’ve never stopped looking for you.”
“I know.”
Then a man’s voice interrupted.
“That’s enough.”
The call ended.
For four years, I’d wondered whether my daughter was alive.
Now I’d heard her voice.
And I knew her father had kept her from me.
I called Beth into the kitchen and told her everything.
When she saw the photograph, she covered her mouth.
Eli clung to her, crying.
My phone vibrated again.
You have ten minutes to decide.
The message included the address from the photograph.
I wanted to rush there immediately.
But Callum had threatened Eli and appeared to be watching my house.
I knew I needed help.
“Beth, call Detective Harris,” I said.
She looked frightened.
“What are you going to do?”
“Callum expects me to come alone.”
“Miriam, that’s dangerous.”
“I know. Tell the detective everything. Give him the address, photographs, and messages.”
She reluctantly agreed.
I replied to Callum.
I’m coming.
His response arrived immediately.
No police.
As I drove toward the address, my hands shook against the steering wheel.
Callum called halfway there.
“Where are you?”
“On my way.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Let me speak to Maisie.”
“Don’t start making demands.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“She’s mine too.”
“Then why did you take her?”
He remained silent.
“Four years, Callum. You watched me spend four years believing she might be dead.”
“I never told you she was dead.”
I almost missed the turn.
“No. You just allowed me to believe it.”
He ended the call.
Twenty minutes later, I reached a quiet rural property.
The white house matched the photograph.
A porch light glowed above the front door.
I parked near the mailbox.
A curtain moved upstairs.
Then Callum appeared.
He looked older, with gray hair beginning to show at his temples.
But he was still unmistakably the man I’d once loved.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
He looked toward the road.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“No.”
He stepped aside.
“Come inside.”
Every instinct told me not to.
But Maisie was somewhere inside that house.
I entered.
The living room looked ordinary.
Children’s books lined a shelf.
A blue blanket covered the sofa.
Small sneakers stood beside the stairs.
They were too large for the five-year-old I remembered.
My daughter had grown up without me.
“Maisie!” I called.
Callum closed the door.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Where is she?”
“Upstairs.”
I started toward the staircase.
He caught my arm.
“Not yet.”
I pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
He insisted we needed to talk.
Then he finally revealed his reason for taking her.
Months before the camping trip, we’d argued about our marriage.
I’d suggested that perhaps we needed some time apart.
Callum believed separation would mean losing custody of Maisie.
“You would’ve taken her away from me,” he insisted.
“We could have worked things out.”
“I couldn’t risk it.”
I stared at him.
“So you made me believe our daughter had disappeared?”
He looked away.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“You let police search the lake. You helped me hang missing-person posters. You comforted me while knowing exactly where she was!”
Callum lowered his eyes.
Then footsteps sounded above us.
I turned.
A little girl stood at the top of the staircase.
Dark hair.
Blue sweater.
Bare feet.
My daughter.
She was taller now, her face no longer as round as I remembered.
But her eyes were exactly the same.
“Mommy?”
I covered my mouth.
“Maisie.”
