Returned Early From Wildfire Duty—My Daughter Missing, Found Locked in Icy Cottage…
The Unexpected Return
I killed the engine and sat there in the driveway, letting the silence wash over me. Three weeks early, the wildfire season had ended abruptly when the rains came, and they’d sent us home from British Columbia ahead of schedule. Twenty-three years with Toronto Fire Services, the last eight doing wildfire deployments, and I’d never gotten back early before.
The house was dark, almost midnight. I’d driven straight through from Kamloops, 11 hours, wanting to surprise Rebecca and Sophie. My daughter would be asleep, but maybe my wife would still be up reading in bed like she always did when I was away.
I grabbed my duffel from the truck bed and walked to the front door. The porch light was off. Strange. Rebecca always left it on when I was deployed. I fumbled with my keys in the darkness. The door was unlocked.
My training kicked in immediately. I set down the duffel quietly and pushed the door open slowly. The house smelled wrong. Not bad, just unused, like no one had been home in days. The living room was pristine. Too pristine.
Something Was Wrong
Rebecca wasn’t the tidiest person, and with an 11-year-old, there were usually shoes by the door, Sophie’s homework spread on the coffee table. Something. Nothing. I walked down the hallway to Sophie’s room. The door was open.
Her bed was made with hospital corners, the stuffed animals arranged in a perfect line. Sophie never made her bed. I made her do it every weekend before I left for deployments, but by Monday morning it was always a disaster again. This bed hadn’t been slept in for days.
My heart rate picked up. I checked our bedroom. Empty. Bed made. Rebecca’s phone charger was missing from the nightstand. Her slippers were gone from beside the bed. I pulled out my phone and called her.
It rang four times before she answered, her voice groggy and confused.
“David, what’s wrong? Where are you?”
There was a pause. Too long.
“What do you mean? It’s midnight.”
“I’m home, Becca. I’m standing in our bedroom and you’re not here. Where are you? Where’s Sophie? You’re home, but you’re not supposed to be back until early release.”
“The fires are out. Where are you?”
Another pause. I could hear her moving. Fabric rustling.
“I’m at my mother’s. Sophie’s here too. We’ve been staying here for the past week.”
“Why?”
“It’s complicated, David. Can we talk about this tomorrow? It’s late.”
“And what time did you put Sophie to bed?”
“Around 9:00. Why?”
“I’m coming there right now.”
“David, no. Please. Just stay home tonight and we’ll talk in the morning.”
I hung up. Something was very wrong.
The House in Aurora
Rebecca’s mother, Patricia, lived in Aurora, about 45 minutes north. Rebecca couldn’t stand her mother. They’d barely spoken since Sophie was born. Patricia was controlling, manipulative, and had never forgiven Rebecca for marrying a firefighter instead of the corporate lawyer she’d picked out.
Why would Rebecca spend a week at her mother’s house? I got back in the truck and drove. The roads were empty at this hour. I made it in 38 minutes.
Patricia’s house was a sprawling property on the edge of Aurora, backing onto conservation land. Old money. Her late husband had been a surgeon. The house was dark except for a single light in an upstairs window.
I parked on the street and walked up the long driveway. The front door was locked this time. I rang the bell. Nothing. I rang again, holding it down. A light came on in the entryway. Rebecca opened the door wearing a robe, her hair disheveled. She looked thin. Too thin. Dark circles under her eyes.
“David, what are you doing? It’s almost 1:00 in the morning.”
“I want to see Sophie.”
“She’s asleep. You can see her in the—”
I pushed past her into the house.
“Sophie!”
I called out.
“David, stop. You’re going to wake my mother.”
“I don’t give a damn about your mother. Sophie!”
Rebecca grabbed my arm. There was panic in her eyes. Real fear.
“Please. Please don’t do this. Not now.”
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She’d lost weight. Her hands were shaking and her eyes—God, her eyes looked haunted.
“What’s going on?”
I asked quietly.
The Guest Cottage
Before she could answer, Patricia appeared at the top of the stairs. 72 years old, rail thin, white hair pulled back in a severe bun. She was fully dressed despite the hour. Slacks, a cardigan, pearls.
“David, what an unexpected surprise. Where’s my daughter?”
“Sophie is perfectly fine. She’s sleeping in the guest cottage out back. I thought it would be good for her to have her own space. She’s at such an important age. You know, independence is crucial.”
The guest cottage, a converted barn about 100 meters behind the main house. I’d been there once years ago. It was freezing in winter. I headed for the back door.
“David, wait.”
Rebecca started.
Patricia’s voice was sharp.
“Rebecca, let him go. If he wants to disturb Sophie’s sleep and upset her, that’s his choice.”
I grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and went out the back door. The temperature had dropped, maybe 4°C. I could see my breath. The cottage was completely dark. I crossed the lawn, my boots crunching on frost.
The cottage door was padlocked from the outside. Padlocked. I yanked on it.
“Sophie! Sophie, it’s Dad!”
Nothing.
“Sophie, honey, can you hear me?”
I heard something. A small sound. Then my daughter’s voice, weak and hoarse.
“Dad? I’m here.”
“Baby, I’m right here.”
“Dad, I’m so cold.”
