Truly Theirs

Chapter 3

Nadyia’s POV

The SUV skidded to a stop, headlights sweeping across the decrepit structure half-swallowed by trees.

The cabin looked dead.

Too quiet.

Liam was out first, gun drawn, stance surgical. Noah followed, circling around back. Nadyia moved slower, pulse a drumbeat in her ears, Ethan’s blanket still clutched in her hands like a talisman.

“Clear,” Liam called a minute later, voice flat.

“Empty,” Noah confirmed. “But someone was here.”

Nadyia stepped inside. The air was thick with dust and woodsmoke. Bottles on the table. A dirty bottle on the floor. An overturned can of formula.

A folded onesie in the corner.

Her knees buckled.

“He was here,” she whispered. “He was here.”

Noah stood near the crib. “Still warm.”

Liam was already moving. “He knew we were coming. Someone tipped him.”

Nadyia’s fingers brushed a faint smear on the floor a milk trail. Something sticky. Ethan had been crying.

“He’s running scared,” she said, voice barely audible. “He won’t be able to hide forever. He’s unraveling. I can feel it.”

Liam nodded, checking his phone. “Sandoval’s rerouting patrols to possible highways. Drones are already in the air.”

Noah pulled a baby wipe from his back pocket and gently picked up the bottle. “I can try to lift prints. Might be messy, but worth it.”

“Check the trash,” Liam said. “Look for receipts, food wrappers, anything local. If he bought gas or supplies, we might catch a timeline.”

Nadyia wandered to the window. Looked out at the darkness. The woods. The endless paths a desperate man might take.

“He took my baby into this,” she said. “Cold floors. No diapers. No safety. Just running.”

Liam walked over, his hand landing on her back. “We’re getting him back.”

She nodded slowly. Her grief was shifting, turning into something sharper. Something stronger.

Not just a mother’s pain.

A mother’s vengeance.

“If he thinks we’re going to stop he’s more delusional than I thought.” And as the night thickened around them, the chase began again.

The drive back was quieter than the drive out.

No sirens. No screaming. Just headlights cutting through the dark and three hearts carrying too much weight.

When they pulled into Mama B’s driveway, the front porch light was still on left like a lighthouse, a signal to come home.

The back door was broken. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A patrol car idled nearby, its lights dimmed out of respect.

Nadyia pushed open the door first. The house smelled like cinnamon and antiseptic.

“Mama B?” she called softly.

From the living room, a voice croaked back. “I’m here, baby.”

Mama B was bundled under a quilt on the couch, eyes rimmed red but spine straight. She looked like someone who’d seen war. Because she had.

Nadyia crossed the room in three strides and sank to her knees beside the couch. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

“A bruise or two,” Mama B said gently, brushing Nadyia’s hair back like she used to when she was little. “But he didn’t hurt me. Just pushed past. He was... frantic. Not right in the head.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Noah muttered from the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Liam stood beside him, surveying the room with practiced eyes. “You sure he didn’t say anything? Any clue where he was going?”

Mama B shook her head. “Only thing he said was, ‘He’s mine. I’m not letting them twist him like they twisted me.’ Then he was gone.”

Nadyia felt a fresh wave of nausea.

“He left his scent on everything,” Mama B whispered. “Even after he’s gone, you can still smell the sickness.”

“We found the cabin,” Liam said. “He’s already moved on. We were close. Hours behind, maybe less.”

“Which means he’s scared,” Noah added. “He’s watching his back. That makes mistakes more likely.”

Mama B’s eyes sharpened. “Then keep pressing. You know how predators act when they’re cornered.”

Nadyia stood slowly, rubbing her forehead. “I need to go through everything. The baby bag. His sleep data. The GPS. Any habits Michael might’ve tracked. I need a shower and caffeine, and then I need a war room.”

“Already setting it up,” Liam said, turning toward the hallway. “We’ll use the guest room. Whiteboards, maps, everything we’ve got.”

Mama B’s voice stopped them at the door.

“Bring him home,” she said, firmly. “And when you do... make sure that man never breathes free air again.”

“He won’t,” Nadyia said. “We’re not stopping until Ethan is in our arms and Michael’s in chains.”

Then she turned, every step pulling her deeper into battle.

This wasn’t just personal anymore.

This was war.

Liam’s POV

The guest room had once been cozy. Quilts, plants, framed photos of smiling grandkids.

Now it was war.

The bed was cleared. A folding table was brought in. Maps were taped to the walls, laptop cords snaking across the floor.

Liam stood in the center, flanked by Noah and Nadyia.

He marked a dot on the map. “Cabin’s here. He left less than three hours ago. GPS pinged near the forest road, but then it went dark.”

“He ditched the baby monitor,” Noah muttered. “Or found the tracker. Either way, we’ve lost the signal.”

Nadyia didn’t flinch. “Then we look for everything else. Receipts. Cell towers. Highway cameras. Local gas stations.”

She was already typing, her fingers a blur on the laptop. “He didn’t plan this well. His mind’s slipping. He’s impulsive. We can use that.”

“Already requested toll road data,” Liam said. “But if he’s smart, he’s using backroads.”

“Smart?” Nadyia scoffed. “Michael’s not smart. He’s desperate. That makes him predictable.”

Noah slid a photo of Michael across the table taken two years ago, right before he went fully off-grid. “We feed this to local law enforcement. Give Sandoval everything we’ve got. If he tries to buy baby formula again, someone will see him.”

Nadyia scanned the map. “He’s not going far. Not yet. He thinks he can outwait us. Hide. He’s probably stashed another location close, one he didn’t use before.”

Liam leaned closer. “Hunting cabins. Abandoned properties. Old survivalist forums. Cross-check with his known aliases.”

“Already on it,” Noah said. “Pulling real estate data, property tax dodgers, and flagged short-term rentals.”

Nadyia straightened, eyes glassy but locked. “Every minute we don’t act, he thinks he’s winning.”

“He’s not,” Liam said quietly. “He’s just getting tired.”

The silence that followed was thick but not hopeless.

It was focused.

Then Liam added one last note to the board:

“REMEMBER: Ethan’s still alive.”

And under it:

“We bring him home.”