Chapter 3: What the Morning Found
It had been a long week. The chaos of the past few days had finally started to settle, and Jess could feel the tension in her shoulders ease. Things had calmed down with her friends too. She'd even had dinner with Abby, and, for the first time in what felt like forever, the topic of babies hadn't come up. Jess had been prepared for it—expected it, even—but instead, the evening had been filled with laughter and light conversation. It was a small victory.
Work, however, had been a different story. Jess had been on call two nights of the week, both of which dragged her out to crime scenes in the middle of the night. The calls were unpredictable, chaotic, and often dark, and every time she found herself leaving the warmth of her bed for another grim reality, she couldn't help but think how her job always seemed to prove her point: kids didn't fit into her life.
But now, it was Saturday night, and she was finally off.
The day had been a mix of mundane and wonderful. She and Don had spent it together, ticking off tasks from their to-do list. Groceries were picked up, a trip to IKEA had been made for a new desk for their home office, and, to top it off, a trip to the gym. The day had been busy, but there was a comforting rhythm to it. They worked in tandem, like a team that had figured out the delicate balance of life.
When they got home, Jess threw on some music and began cleaning while Don, ever the perfectionist, continued putting together furniture. It had become their routine, and with every drawer that slid into place, every shelf that found its place on the wall, the house slowly transformed into something more than just a house. It was becoming their home—a reflection of their lives together.
The wedding photo now hung above the fireplace in the living room, framed and perfect, capturing that day, that moment. It felt good to have one more piece of themselves in the house.
"Jess," Don's voice called from the living room, laced with anticipation, "the game's about to start."
Jess clicked on the dishwasher, grabbed the bowl of her homemade spinach and artichoke dip and her phone.
"Couldn't manage the beers too," she said, collapsing onto the plush cushions of the couch. She carefully positioned the tray of dip and tortilla chips on the coffee table.
Don nodded, already on his feet. Without a word, he disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, returning shortly after with two frosty bottles of local craft beer in hand. The condensation on the glass made them look even more refreshing, and Jess gratefully accepted hers with a smile.
She pulled her well-worn Rangers blanket over her legs, feeling the soft fabric settle against her skin as she snuggled into Don's side. It was one of those moments where everything else could wait. The world felt small, cozy, and just right. Tonight, the New York Rangers were facing off against the Florida Panthers, and her allegiance was firmly with the Blueshirts.
"What did your dad say when you told him we couldn't make it to dinner tomorrow?" Don asked, breaking the comfortable silence as he crunched on a chip. His eyes flickered to the TV, but he kept his voice soft, a hint of concern creeping in as he glanced at her. The flu was running rampant, and it had stretched the precinct thin. That meant Don, too, had unexpectedly been called in to work tomorrow.
"Not much," Jess replied, taking a long, satisfying sip of her beer. She leaned into Don, her fingers brushing his as she set her bottle down on the table. "He knows we have to work. Not much he could argue. I did call Katie, though, just to make sure she knew I wasn't deliberately avoiding her."
Don raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm glad you made up," he said, his tone light but carrying a touch of fondness.
"Me too," Jess agreed with a small laugh. But then, as if on cue, her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it quickly. "Speaking of the devil," she muttered, reaching for her phone, "Katie's sending me random reels."
Don chuckled, his gaze flickering to her screen as she unlocked her phone. "The reels are her love language," he teased, resting his arm around her shoulders. "Can't let a day go by without sharing something ridiculous."
Jess smiled, tapping the phone and quickly scrolling through the endless stream of cat videos, memes, and quirky clips Katie seemed to find on the daily. She clicked on one that was a ridiculous compilation of awkward falls and failed dance moves. "Yep. Definitely her love language," Jess agreed, passing the phone over to Don so he could see the absurdity for himself.
Don took the phone, his eyes scanning the video as he shook his head, chuckling. "She's something else."
Jess settled deeper into the couch, her mind finally at ease for the first time all week. The weight of everything—work, family, the tension that had been lingering—seemed to melt away.
"Alright," she said with a playful grin, turning her head toward Don, "let me make myself clear. I'm cheering for the Rangers tonight. Only because the Devils aren't playing."
Don shot her a look, his smirk already forming. "Yeah?" he teased, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Explain the blanket, the Rangers tee you have on, and I'm willing to bet you have your ranger socks on. Face it, Angell, I've made a fan out of you. You don't see me wearing anything Devils-related."
Jess rolled her eyes but couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "Just wait until Christmas, Flack," Jess joked, her voice light but full of challenge. "Expect a Devils jersey under the tree."
Don laughed, clearly entertained by the thought. "I'll believe it when I see it. But hey," he added with a wink, "you've got a few months to change your mind."
Jess shot him a playful glance, giving him a mock salute. "Don't get too comfortable, buddy. A Devils jersey will be your Christmas present whether you like it or not."
Don snickered, his arm wrapping around Jess's shoulders as they both turned their attention back to the game. The ice was cold, the puck was in play, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to fade away.
Then, just as the Rangers broke out for a clean rush toward the net, Don's voice cut through the quiet, low and laced with mischief. "I have an idea."
Jess turned her head, arching an eyebrow, a knowing smirk already tugging at her lips. "What?" she asked, fully expecting some cheeky comment. With Don, there was always a twist.
"You wear just that tee to bed tonight," he said with a laugh, eyes twinkling.
Jess rolled her eyes, fighting back a grin. "I'm not wearing much more than that now," she shot back, tugging the Rangers blanket a little tighter around her as if to make a point.
Don raised his hands in mock surrender. "Exactly my point. You're already halfway there."
She shook her head with a soft laugh, leaning into him again. "You're relentless."
"And you love it," he said, kissing the top of her head.
Jess didn't argue. She just smiled, her eyes drifting back to the game. The Rangers scored seconds later, the crowd roaring through the TV speakers—but all Jess could feel was the quiet happiness of the moment. The teasing, the comfort, the warmth of Don next to her.
She didn't need to say anything else. The night was perfect just the way it was.
Jess pulled up to the quiet, tree-lined street, the kind of idyllic suburban neighborhood where nothing was ever supposed to happen. But the flashing red and blue lights bouncing off the windows told a different story. Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, stretched tight across the front yard of a beautiful two-story home, the kind with a swing set in the backyard and a mailbox that probably still had last week's flyers in it.
She parked her unmarked SUV at the curb, her eyes scanning the scene before stepping out. It was early—the kind of early where the sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale gray light across the scene, not quite ready to shine on what waited inside.
Jess walked toward the house, the familiar weight of her badge clipped to her belt and her notepad already in hand. She nodded at a few officers she recognized from previous calls, but kept her focus tight. She was already in work mode.
"Morning, Detective Flack," Officer Johnson greeted with a lopsided grin as she stepped under the tape.
Jess smirked, not breaking stride. "Still Angell," she called back over her shoulder.
It was a long-running joke between them—harmless, and just enough to lighten the mood for a second. She liked Johnson; he was one of the few who could toe that line without crossing it.
She had thought about changing her name when she and Don got married. Not out of obligation, and not because she didn't love him—God, she did—but for her, keeping Angell wasn't a statement. It was practical.
There was already a Detective Flack in the department. Adding another one to the mix would've been chaos—like middle school all over again, when there were three other Jessicas in every classroom and she'd been stuck with "Jess A." She'd built her career under the name Angell, earned her stripes with it. She wasn't ready to shelve it just because she'd put on a ring.
Besides, Don didn't care either way. If anything, he respected the decision. He always did.
Her boots crunched on the gravel path as she approached the front door, which hung slightly ajar. A uniformed officer pushed it open for her.
"Victim's inside, in the kitchen," the uniformed officer said quietly, giving her a small nod to enter.
"Scene cleared?" Jess asked, her tone even but firm.
Johnson stepped up beside her and gave a nod. "I wasn't first on scene, but Miller and Evans were. They cleared it."
Jess exhaled slowly through her nose, biting back the comment that immediately sprang to mind. That didn't give her a ton of confidence.
Most of the officers she worked with, she had a deep respect for—dedicated, sharp, trustworthy. If she could choose her team every time, Johnson would be the first on her list. Steady hands, good instincts, no ego. But Miller and Evans? They were… fine. Not reckless, not incompetent, just not as thorough as she'd like. Too quick to assume, too eager to wrap a scene up neatly.
Jess preferred messy truth over clean assumptions.
She stepped inside, one hand brushing her badge as a reflex, like it anchored her to something solid. The house was still. Too still. A child's drawing hung on the fridge ahead, and the scent of something faintly floral clung to the air—fabric softener, maybe, or a candle that had long since burned out.
In the kitchen, the victim lay sprawled near the center island. Blood pooled beneath the body, thick and dark against the pale tile floor. A broken coffee mug lay a few feet away, shards fanned out like an afterthought.
Jess took it all in with the trained eyes of someone who had done this too many times but still cared too much.
"Where's Miller now?" she asked without looking back.
"Garage, talking to the neighbor who made the call," Johnson replied. "Evans is doing a sweep upstairs.
Jess crouched beside the body, her eyes scanning every inch—wounds, bruising, blood pattern. The woman couldn't have been much older than twenty. Blonde hair, matted with blood. A delicate silver chain around her neck caught the light, and something about it tugged at Jess's memory.
Johnson knelt beside her, handing over the victim's wallet, sealed in an evidence bag.
"Found this in her purse, on the counter," he said quietly.
Jess took it, flipping it open.
Emily Clark.
"I know that name"Johnson said. "Possession charges. Pretty recent."
Jess nodded slowly. "I'll run the name."
Jess glanced around the kitchen, her gut tightening with unease. She wished Johnson had been the one to clear the scene—not Miller and Evans. Something was off, she could feel it. The signs were all there, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong—yet.
A high chair tucked near the dining table, a bottle drying rack beside the sink, and a tiny pair of pink sneakers by the back door.
Her heart dropped.
"Where's the kid?"
Johnson blinked. "What kid?"
"High chair, sneakers" Jess said pointing "a kid lives here"
Johnson stood up immediately, alert. "There's been no report of a child at the scene."
Jess was already moving, her eyes scanning every inch of the space now, not just for evidence of a crime—but for signs of life. A child's life.
She pointed toward the fridge. "Drawings. Crayon scribbles. A kid lives here, Johnson. Or at least… did."
Jess pulled out her phone, quickly opening the NYPD database app. She typed in Emily Clark, scanning the results until she found what she was looking for.
"Lilly," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "Her daughter. She's three."
Jess' her voice firm now. "We need a search—now. Room to room, attic, basement, backyard. Anywhere a scared three-year-old could hide."
He was already on the radio, calling it in as she moved through the house with a purpose, each step quicker than the last. She passed Lindsay and Mac in the hallway—Lindsay already deep in photographs, Mac examining blood patterns near the entryway.
"Jess," Mac said, stopping her gently. "Scene's still hot. You okay?"
"Not until we find a little girl named Lilly Clark. She's missing, Mac." Jess didn't slow down.
That got their attention.
Lindsay's eyes widened. "A kid?"
Jess nodded. "Three years old. Last seen with Emily—this is her mom's house. If she was here when it happened, and she's not here now…"
She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to.
Outside, officers began sweeping the yard, calling Lilly's name softly, like they were afraid to spook her if she was hiding. Jess moved toward the back patio, heart thudding against her ribs. She stepped past the swing set, her eyes scanning the overgrown garden near the fence.
Then—movement.
"Hold up," she said sharply, raising a hand.
Johnson spotted it too, near the old potting shed tucked at the far edge of the yard. The door was slightly ajar. Jess moved forward slowly, her breath caught in her chest.
"Lilly?" she called gently.
No answer.
She stepped closer, and then—soft, barely-there whimpers from inside.
Jess rushed forward, pulling the shed door open with slow care.
There, curled in the corner behind a stack of crates, was a tiny girl in a purple t-shirt and leggings, her eyes wide with fear and her thumb in her mouth. Tear-streaked cheeks, dirt smudges on her arms. But alive.
"Lilly," Jess breathed, crouching down. "Sweetheart, you're okay. My name's Jess. I'm here to help."
Lilly blinked at her, unmoving.
Jess didn't push it. She stayed low, kept her voice calm and steady. "You're safe now, sweetheart. No one's going to hurt you. Can I pick you up?"
Lilly gave the faintest nod.
Jess reached out slowly, gently gathering the little girl into her arms. She was cold and trembling, but the moment Jess lifted her, Lilly clung to her shirt like it was a lifeline.
Something tugged hard in Jess's chest. She'd been doing this job long enough to have seen the worst of what people could do—but it was always the kids that hit her the hardest. And this little girl, shaking in her arms, holding on with all the strength her tiny body could muster... she wasn't just a case.
There was something about her—something that settled deep under Jess's ribs, a quiet pull she couldn't ignore.
Lilly didn't cry. She didn't speak. She just held on, as if she knew, somehow, that Jess was someone she could trust.
Jess rested her cheek gently against the top of Lilly's head, her hand rubbing slow circles on her back. "You're okay now," she whispered, even if the words felt too fragile. "I've got you."
More officers arrived, their presence quiet and careful. EMS had been called, but Jess didn't hand Lilly off—not yet. She wasn't ready to let go.
She stepped out of the shed with the little girl still clutched tightly to her, the early morning light brushing over them both like a quiet promise.
Lilly was safe.
But her mother, Emily Clark, was dead.
And Jess? She wasn't just going to solve this case—she needed to. For Emily. For Lilly.
Because somewhere along the way, in the span of a few heartbeats, this little girl had become more than a witness.
She'd become hers. Not in any official way—not yet. But Jess could feel it. That bond. That weight.
She wouldn't walk away from this one.
Not ever.