On Christmas morning, the present from my father-in-law rested beneath the tree among all the other beautifully wrapped gifts.

By midnight, Emma had fallen into an exhausted, medicine-induced sleep. Daniel stayed by her side while I accompanied Officer Miller back to our house. The crime scene investigators had finished dusting for prints and collecting samples, leaving the living room in an eerie quiet. The Christmas tree lights twinkled mockingly against the walls, illuminating the scattered wrapping paper of a ruined holiday.

“We got a hit on his toll pass,” Officer Miller announced as we stood by the front door. “His truck passed through the toll plaza heading north toward Blackwood Ridge about an hour after you left for the hospital. He owns an old hunting cabin up there. No electricity, isolated, hard to reach in the winter.”

“That’s where he used to take Emma,” I realized, a cold dread washing over me. “That cabin is his sanctuary. He thinks he’s untouchable up in those woods.”

“We’re mobilizing a unit now,” Miller said, resting his hand on his holster. “Mrs. Pierce, I want you to stay here with your husband or at the hospital. This is police business.”

“No,” I said flatly, turning to look him dead in the eye. “My daughter was the target. I am going.”

Miller looked like he wanted to argue, but something in my expression stopped him. He nodded once. “Suit up warm. It’s freezing up on the ridge, and it’s going to be a long night.”

The drive up Blackwood Ridge was treacherous. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the winding mountain roads in a slick layer of white. Our cruiser led a convoy of two other police vehicles, their headlights cutting through the heavy winter darkness. As we climbed higher, cell service flickered and died, leaving us isolated in the vast, unforgiving wilderness.

When we finally reached the fork leading to Richard’s cabin, Miller signaled for the officers to cut their headlights. We parked a quarter-mile away, continuing on foot through the thick, pine-scented snow. The forest was dead silent, save for the crunch of our boots and the howling wind through the branches.