Back at the station
The ambulance doors had barely closed before Marianne stood in the station hallway; the fluorescent lights were too bright after the dim hush of the rescue. Diesel fumes clung to her coat. Her hands still felt the imprint of the girl’s grip — small fingers, desperate strength, refusing to let go until unconsciousness finally claimed her.
Maskwa. Not a full name. Not yet. But enough to pull threads.
Detective Sergeant Rowan was waiting in the briefing room, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half‑finished cup of coffee cooling beside a stack of forms. He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from impatience to something more sober.
“They’ve got her at St. Agnes,” Rowan said. “Stabilizing. Vitals are rough, but she’s holding.”
Marianne nodded, lowering herself into the chair opposite him. Her knees finally registered the hours she’d been running on adrenaline. “She’s older than she looks.”
“So, the medic said.” Rowan opened a folder but didn’t look at it. “Any idea how old?”
“Fourteen,” Marianne whispered. “Maybe fifteen. Hard to tell under the neglect.”
Rowan exhaled through his nose. “God.”
Marianne didn’t answer. Her mind was still in the ambulance — the girl’s eyes, the way she’d clung to her, the single word she’d forced out like it cost her something.
Maskwa. A name rooted in the land. A name that didn’t belong in that trailer.
Rowan finally looked at her. “Do you think she’s one of the missing?”
“I think she’s someone who survived something she shouldn’t have.” Marianne folded her hands, grounding herself. “And I think she’s going to tell us more when she can.”
###
The Debriefing
Rowan finally looked at her. “Alright. Let’s start the debrief. Walk me through everything from the moment you entered the property.”
Marianne shook her head. “It wasn’t a property I entered. The place the truck stopped at was empty when I arrived — no lights, no movement, no signs anyone had been inside for hours. I followed a trail of blood and small tracks leading away from it, into the trees.”
Rowan straightened slightly. “She escaped.”
“She escaped,” Marianne confirmed. “On her own. I found her collapsed in an open clearing — no shelter, no heat source, nothing. Snow had already started drifting over her. She wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”
She paused, then reached into her coat pocket. “There’s something else.” She placed a small purple bead on the table — plastic, scuffed, the kind used in children’s bracelets. It looked absurdly bright against the dull metal surface. “I found this in the back of the truck I followed,” she said. “Same color as the bracelet on the younger girl we recovered last month. It didn’t belong in that vehicle unless she did.”
Rowan’s expression sharpened. “That’s Ridge material.”
Marianne nodded. “Exactly.”
Rowan scribbled something, then paused. “Condition when you reached her?”
“Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Malnutrition. Bruising on the wrists and upper arms — old and new. Someone restrained her at some point." Marianne stated.
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Then this isn’t just a missing‑child recovery. This is evidence of an active operation.”
Marianne met his eyes. “And it’s connected to the Ridge. We both know it.”
Rowan didn’t argue. He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ve been circling that place for months. Never enough to get a warrant. Never enough to push past the politics.”
“Well,” Marianne said, voice low, “we have enough now.”
Rowan studied her for a long moment. “You’re sure.”
“I carried her out of that clearing,” Marianne said. “I know what I saw.”
Rowan nodded decisively. “Alright. I’ll get the paperwork started. We’ll need to coordinate with the RCMP, Child Services, and Missing Persons. And someone’s going to notify her nation.”
“I’ll handle that,” Marianne said immediately.
Rowan didn’t argue. “Good. They’ll want to hear it from someone who understands.”
A beat of silence settled between them — not empty, but heavy with the weight of what came next. Rowan closed the folder. “What did she say to you? In the ambulance.”
Marianne hesitated. “Just one word.”
“And?”
“Maskwa.”
Rowan’s brows lifted. “Bear.”
Marianne nodded. "It might be a last name. Could be a clan name. Could be the only thing she could remember.”
“Or the only thing she trusted you with,” Rowan said.
Marianne didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.