Chapter 3 - The Terminal Departure
The screech of the train’s braking system rattled through the metal framework, jolting the passengers out of their trance. Suitcases shifted overhead, coats were rustled from hooks, and the low murmur of anticipation filled the car as people prepared to flood the narrow aisles toward the sliding doors.
June was fast asleep against Graham’s side, her small hand clutching a fold of his wool coat. Toby’s eyes were heavy, his head lolling against Graham’s shoulder.
Across the aisle, Cassie quietly packed her belongings into a small, worn canvas rucksack that looked like it had been patched multiple times with heavy-duty thread. She stood up smoothly, her movements economical and practiced.
“Wait,” Graham said, gently shifting June so he could stand. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his leather wallet, sliding out a crisp, heavy card. “Cassie. Where are you heading?”
Cassie looked at the card embossed with silver lettering: Graham McKenzie — CEO, McKenzie Mobility. She glanced up, her expression entirely unimpressed by the corporate title.
“Home,” she said simply.
“Where is home?” Graham pressed, stepping into the aisle to block her path, careful not to wake his children. “You sang to my kids when the whole car was ready to throw us off. At least let me make sure you have a ride. It’s freezing out there.”
“I take the crosstown bus,” Cassie replied, her chin lifting slightly with a stubborn pride that felt heartbreakingly familiar. “I don't need a ride, mister. They just needed a song.”
Before Graham could argue, the automatic doors hissed open, and the freezing November wind rushed into the corridor, carrying the scent of city exhaust, wet pavement, and distant industry. A wave of commuters surged forward, separating them instantly.
“Cassie!” Graham called out over the rising tide of bodies, but the gray-suited man and a rush of travelers carrying oversized luggage pushed between them.
When Graham finally cleared the doorway onto the crowded concrete platform of the central terminal, scanning the sea of woolen coats and glowing smartphone screens, the girl in the faded denim jacket was entirely gone.
“Dad? Are we at the farm?” Toby mumbled, rubbing his eyes as Graham hoisted him up onto his hip, holding sleeping June in his other arm.
“No, buddy,” Graham whispered, his eyes scanning the exit gates. “We’re home.”
The cab ride to the Westport house was silent. The driver didn't talk; the radio played low, static-filled jazz. When they walked up the stone steps of the large, beautiful colonial house that felt entirely devoid of life, Graham unlocked the heavy oak door.
The air inside was cold. Claire’s raincoat still hung in the mudroom. The mail was piled neatly on the mahogany console table—mostly bills, junk mail, and letters of condolence that Graham had stopped opening months ago.
He got the children into their pajamas and tucked them into their respective beds, reading them a story neither of them heard because they crashed into exhausted sleep almost instantly.
May you like
Downstairs, sitting in the dark kitchen with a glass of cold water he had no intention of drinking, Graham pulled out his phone. He opened his contacts, stared at the silver-embossed card he had tried to hand Cassie, and then opened a browser window.
He didn't know her last name. He didn't know where she lived. But Graham McKenzie was a man who managed logistics across forty-six states. He knew how to track movement. And by midnight, he was going to find out who was letting a child like Cassie ride crosstown buses alone in the freezing dark.
