Sarah pulled over, cursing under her breath, and stepped out to check the fuse box. The damp river air was biting. As she leaned over the hood, she heard it. Not the sound of water on stone, but something else. A faint, rhythmic splashing, like a small animal struggling.
She straightened up and listened. The sound came again, followed by a weak, wet cough. Sarah grabbed her flashlight and ran toward the bank. The beam cut through the mist, reflecting off the dark water. And then she saw it. A tiny figure caught in the reeds near the shore. Face down, hair floating like silk, arms limp.
Sarah didn’t hesitate. She waded into the freezing water, the cold stealing her breath. She grabbed the child, hauled her onto the muddy bank, and flipped her over. The girl’s face was blue, her lips a terrifying shade of purple. She wasn’t breathing.
Sarah fell to her knees and started chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five. Rescue breaths. Again. One, two, three, four, five. Nothing. She kept going, her own tears blurring her vision. She whispered like a prayer, though she hadn’t been to church in years.
— Come on, kid. Breathe. Don’t you dare die on me. You hear me? Breathe!
Then, the girl convulsed. Water sprayed from her mouth, and she let out a weak, ragged cry. It was the most beautiful sound Sarah had ever heard. She scooped the girl up, wrapping her in her own flannel shirt, and held her tight.
Sarah started to sob—not from sadness, but from the sheer weight of the moment. For the first time in twenty years, Sarah Miller was holding onto something that wasn’t going to slip away.
— I’ve got you, — she whispered into the girl’s ear. — I’m not letting go. I promise.
Hours before Sarah pulled the girl from the river, the morning at the Sterling estate had started like any other. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the kitchen, where Mark Sterling sat on the floor, his back against the mahogany cabinets. His six-year-old daughter, Annie, stood behind him with a look of intense concentration, trying to tie a bright pink ribbon into his dark hair.
Mark Sterling—a man who had just closed a fifty-million-dollar deal and could make the city’s elite tremble with a single phone call—sat perfectly still so his daughter could finish her masterpiece.
— Don’t move, Daddy, — Annie said, her voice stern in that way only a child can be. — I’m almost done.
— Are we finished yet, Annie? — he asked, smiling.
— Not yet. If you wiggle, I have to start over.
Mark wore a smile that no one in the business world ever saw. This was the only part of the day when he felt like a real person. Every morning, he’d wake up early to make her pancakes—the only breakfast she’d eat. He’d cut the bananas into star shapes because she said stars tasted better than circles.
When Annie’s mother, Margaret, died during childbirth, Mark had been shattered. He’d buried his grief in work and in loving Annie with the intensity of two parents. He’d even watched dozens of YouTube tutorials to learn how to braid her hair properly. No one knew that the “Shark of Atlanta” could do a perfect French braid in under five minutes.
— Daddy, will you be home early tonight? — Annie asked as he stood up, the pink ribbon still dangling from his hair.
— I’ll try my best, sweetheart, — he said, kissing her forehead. He breathed in the scent of her strawberry shampoo, a smell he wanted to memorize.
He didn’t know it would be the last time he’d see that pink ribbon. He put on his suit, stepped into his black Suburban, and drove away. He didn’t see Claire watching them from the upstairs window, her face a mask of cold envy.
Claire had married Mark for the status, but the reality of being a stepmother to a child who wasn’t hers was eating her alive. Every time Mark looked at Annie, Claire saw the ghost of the first wife. Every star-shaped banana was a reminder that she was second place. The doctors had told her she was infertile, and that news had turned her jealousy into a quiet, dangerous madness.
That morning, as she heard Annie singing in the garden, Claire made a choice. She walked downstairs and called out in her most convincing “mom” voice.
— Come on, Annie. Put on your coat. We’re going for a surprise drive. Just you and me.
Annie’s eyes lit up.
— A girl’s trip, Mom?
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