She never looked back. The terminal kept moving as if nothing had happened.
People rushed past with suitcases, phones, coffee cups—passing within inches of those children without seeing them.
But I saw. I saw the boy’s grip tighten around his bear. I saw the girl stare at the closing boarding door until her chin began to tremble.
Neither of them cried. And that was what hit me the hardest. Children who believe someone will come for them cry.
Children who know no one is coming go quiet. I moved before I could think.
Marco reached for my arm. “Ryker—” I shook him off and crossed the terminal.
When I crouched in front of them, the girl looked up at me with eyes the color of a winter sky.
She didn’t flinch. Somehow, that hurt more. “Where’s your mom?” I asked softly.
The boy looked down at his bear. “She’s not our mom,” he said. Flat. Rehearsed.
Like it had been practiced too many times to count. I swallowed hard. “What are your names?”
“I’m Lily,” the girl whispered. “That’s Owen.” “How old are you?” “Five,” Owen said.
“We’re twins.” I lowered myself to sit beside them instead of standing over them.
My men formed a loose perimeter, but I signaled them back. “Is someone coming for you?”
