Chapter 17 - The Scent on the Silk Ribbon
The private jet touched down in Albany forty minutes later.
Jared didn't let medical staff bandage his lacerated hand properly; he merely wrapped a dark linen napkin around it, refusing to acknowledge the pain. Willa stayed beside him, her veterinarian instincts keeping Roman calm in the pressurized cabin, though the giant Mastiff’s ears remained pinned flat against his skull.
St. Jude’s Haven was a secluded brick manor surrounded by dense pine forests. Inside, the director—an elderly nun whose hands shook uncontrollably—sat across from Jared in the dimly lit office.
"She was eight years old, Mr. Kensington," Sister Beatrice wept, clutching a wooden crucifix. "A sweet, quiet child. She couldn't see a thing, but her hearing... dear God, she could hear a sparrow landing on the windowsill. She told me her mother’s guardian angel would come for her one day."
"Who took her?" Jared demanded, leaning over the wooden desk, a towering shadow of lethal intent. "Names. License plates."
"They had federal badges. They said her father had been located and sent for her." Sister Beatrice reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a faded piece of emerald-green silk ribbon. "They dropped this when they hurried her into the black SUV. Faith always kept it tied around her wrist. She said it was the only thing she owned from the woman who gave birth to her."
Willa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
Jared took the ribbon. The silk was frayed, stained by years of a child’s tears and touch. But stitched into the inner seam in delicate gold thread was a single monogram: E.M.
"Elena," Jared choked out, his knees buckling for the first time in his life.
It was Elena’s favorite hair ribbon—the one she wore the night she vanished nine years ago.
Roman suddenly pushed forward, his massive head shoving past Jared’s arm. The 160-pound beast lowered his snout to the silk ribbon. He sniffed once. Twice.
Then, Roman froze.
His tail didn't wag. His hackles didn't rise. Instead, a sound tore out of Roman’s throat that Willa had never heard before: a high-pitched, desperate, mournful whimper.
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"He knows it," Willa whispered, grabbing Jared’s arm. "Jared, Roman lived with Elena for three years before she was killed. Dogs have up to 300 million olfactory receptors. He doesn't just smell Elena on this ribbon... he smells her direct bloodline."
Roman spun toward the heavy oak exit doors, threw his front paws against the brass handles, and let out an ear-splitting bark that rattled the windowpanes.
