Jude and Free bolted for the stairs like prisoners who’d received a last-minute stay of execution, but my feet felt like they’d been welded to the entryway floor, my chest muscles tightening like a vise around my lungs.

“We can’t leave,” I burst out.

“We’re search and rescue, Kira. If you choose this life, you won’t always like what you find.” Cady could have stopped there, but she didn’t. “Do you think I wouldn’t give my right arm to bring that little girl home? Do you think I wanted it to end like this?”

No. That was what I meant to say. What came out was “It’s not over. It can’t be.”

I’d stepped back from this search, and where had that gotten us? A barking cadaver dog and unmarked graves. I could picture Bella’s blanket in my mind. I could feel it in my hands.

“Someone has to tell Bella’s mother,” I said hoarsely. “The police will identify the bodies, and then someone has to tell Bella’s mother. It’s not over.”

It wouldn’t be over until Bella—like Mac’s lost ones—got to go home.

“There’s nothing more I can do, Kira,” Cady told me, her voice tight. “And what I’ve already done—it’s cost you and Jude enough.”

“Jude and I are fine,” I insisted.

Cady gave me a look. “Jude is the world’s leading expert at pretending to be fine, at willing himself to be fine, but even he has his limits. And don’t tell me that this search hasn’t taken a toll on you. I saw you back at the clearing. I felt you remembering things that no child should ever have to experience.” Cady’s voice was shot through with emotion. “I won’t stand by and watch you go through it all a second time.”

“What if I want to remember?” I’d spent a lifetime walking in minefields. If I was the one who blew them up, at least I’d have a choice about it.

At least I’d see it coming.

Cady pressed her eyes closed—just for a second—before she responded. “If that’s what you want, then I can set up an appointment with Dr. Wilder. But not yet—not until you’re sure, not here, not because I dragged you into this mess.”

This mess. As in the search she’d kicked me off of? The child we couldn’t save? Or the entire life she’d hidden from us, like we didn’t—like Jude didn’t—have a right to know?

“Mac is Jude’s father.” I tried out the words. It felt like ripping off a bandage, though whether the wound in question was mine or Jude’s or Cady’s, I wasn’t sure.

Opposite me, Cady fell silent.

“Does Mac know?” I asked, taking a step forward. “Does Jude?”