THIRD
Seven hours.
That was how long Nova had been gone.
Seven hours since Javier's voice cracked through the phone, saying she'd left a note and vanished sometime before dawn. Seven hours since every internal clock in Christian's body stopped working properly.
No alarms.
No alerts.
No sightings.
Nothing.
Christian stood in the operations room, hands planted on the table, staring at a city that refused to give her back.
They had done everything right—at least, everything they always did.
Guards dispatched within minutes.
Private surveillance systems hijacked across the city.
Traffic cameras, toll booths, parking garages, ride-share data.
Bus terminals. Train stations. Airports.
Even pedestrian cams outside corner stores and ATMs.
Nothing.
It was like Nova had stepped out of the world.
That was the part that terrified him most.
Because children didn't just disappear like that.
Not unless they planned to.
Malcolm watched the screens change every few seconds—new angles, new timestamps, all empty of her face—and felt something cold settle in his chest.
"She should've shown up somewhere," he said quietly. "Even if she was careful."
Christian didn't answer.
Malcolm continued, voice clinical but strained. "A tweleve-year-old doesn't erase herself this completely by accident. This was intentional."
That word landed hard.
Intentional meant preparation.
Meaning she's been planning this for a while.
And that meant they'd missed it.
Again.
The room was crowded now.
Uncle Javier paced like a caged animal, replaying the morning in his head—what he missed, what he should've heard. Uncle Eduardo stood near the wall, barking orders into a phone, rerouting private feeds from neighboring counties.
Tía Mariana and Valeria sat rigid on the couch, hands clasped so tightly their knuckles were white. They hadn't cried. That scared Christian more than tears would have.
Abuelo Ramón leaned heavily on his cane, eyes sharp with fury and fear. Abuela Adronica murmured prayers under her breath, fingers moving rhythmically over her rosary.
This wasn't chaos.
It was something worse.
It was a room full of people who were used to control—staring at the first thing they couldn't bend.
Malcolm's gaze drifted to the corner room, hidden where old boxes had been stacked years ago and never unpacked.
Memories.
Proof.
"Christian," he said slowly. "Do you remember the tapes?"
Christian turned. "What tapes?"
YOU ARE READING
Bonita
JugendliteraturShe was only 8 years old. 8 years old and she saw her mother get killed by a drive by. From that day poor Nova has been traumatized and has been to foster home to foster home. At the age of 12, Nova has anger and trust issues, never letting anyo...
