Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Sansa’s work day isn’t anywhere near done when her cell rings.
Daycare pops up on the screen, and her hand immediately reaches for it, eyes flicking to the time above the caller’s name. 4:14. She frowns. Daycare is done at four, why are they calling her now?
“Hello?” she chirps, as brightly as she can. They finally got spots at the daycare she wanted, she is not going to do anything to mess that up.
“Mrs. Snow?”
“This is she!”
“I’m calling because Juliana and Eleanor weren’t picked up today.”
Sansa’s heart leaps into her throat, wide eyes turning to her computer, and she clicks open her calendar. Is it her day and she totally spaced?
No. It’s a Tuesday, that’s Jon’s day.
“My husband hasn’t shown up?” she asks, annoyance now replacing her initial panic.
“He hasn’t, and he isn’t answering his phone, either.”
Sansa suppresses the urge to groan. “He probably got held up at work,” she sighs. “Let me try to call him. If I can’t reach him, I’ll come get them. I promise someone will be there in…” she winces, because at this time, traffic is going to be hell. “Thirty minutes?”
“Is it alright if we let them watch TV while they wait?”
For a moment, Sansa almost laughs, but then she remembers some of the moms she’s seen during drop off, and suddenly the question doesn’t sound ridiculous anymore. “Of course that’s alright. Whatever is easiest for you guys. I’m so sorry for this.”
“It happens,” the woman says, too kindly.
Childcare workers are saints, Sansa thinks after she hangs up, already dialing Jon. She puts the phone back up to her ear as it rings, trying not to be too conspicuous that she’s taking personal calls on work time.
She’s only been at this job for a year, and she is desperate not to mess it up. She’s already behind, since it took her so long to finally get her MA and find a job in her field. And it turns out, all an advanced degree managed to get her in this economy was an entry level position at the magazine she works for. A junior editor at thirty, while all her peers are fresh-faced twenty two year olds, just out of college with only their Bachelors. Sometimes she wonders what the point even was of getting her Masters.
When Jon doesn’t answer, Sansa scowls at her phone and tries again, but this time she stands from her desk and makes her way to her manager’s office. The call goes to voicemail again just as she reaches the door, and she hangs up.
“Randa?” Her boss looks up from her desk, and Sansa takes a steadying breath. “Look, I really hate to do this, but it seems like Jon got caught up at work and he’s not answering his phone and I need to go pick up the girls even though it’s not my day and I know I said I’d finish that crypto scam article today and I swear I’ll hop on tonight-”
“Sansa,” Randa laughs, which stops her short. “It’s fine. Go get the girls. The deadline isn’t until noon tomorrow.”
Sansa sags against the doorframe dramatically, gives her boss a grin, and says, “thank you.”
“And read that husband of yours the riot act when he finally digs his head out of his ass,” Randa hums, eyes already back on her computer, hand waving in dismissal.
Sansa doesn’t bother to respond. Randa doesn’t have kids, but she does have a few ex-husbands under her belt (including a very old, very wealthy one who left her this company when he died. Rumor is, he died during the act, which is not something Sansa ever wants to think about). Needless to say, Randa isn’t very forgiving of husbands in general.
Jon is a great husband, Sansa thinks as she makes her way back to her desk, undocks her work laptop, sticks it in her purse, and heads out of the office.
Except, of course, when he forgets it’s his day to pick up the girls and completely ignores his phone. He’s probably got some machine running and can’t even hear it ringing. Or he accidentally put it on airplane mode again. He’s honestly sort of hopeless with technology. She used to joke that he must have grown up living under a rock.
The drive to the daycare is awful, as she predicted. When it’s her day to go pick them up, she makes sure she leaves way earlier than Google maps tells her she needs to, just because she knows traffic will be awful. And it doesn’t help that the sky is grey and overcast, spitting warm rain onto her car, though not enough, so that using her wipers just makes them awkwardly dry rub across the windshield. She wishes autumn would start for real, instead of this lingering summer with its terrible weather. Too warm during the days, then plunging to cold at night.
It’s almost five when she finally pulls into the daycare lot, and she gets out and hurries up to the building.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” It’s the first thing out of her mouth when Miss Katie opens the door to let her in.
“I helped!” Jules says before Miss Katie can even respond, and Sansa looks over to see her daughter standing in the hall with a small plastic vacuum, a brilliant smile on her face. Through the glass window to the infant room, Sansa can see the other workers actually cleaning.
“That’s very kind of you, sweetheart,” Sansa says, though she feels distracted and a bit overwhelmed. Not to mention annoyed. She really might read Jon the riot act when she finally gets ahold of him. “Where’s Nora?”
“Here mama!” another tiny voice calls, appearing from the toddler room.
Where Juliana’s hair is dark and curly, pulled into two messy pigtails (a Jon special, of course), Eleanor has Sansa’s auburn, though much lighter than her own. It will probably darken as she gets older, like Sansa’s had. She likes to keep it short, though, like her Aunt Arya.
“Come on, girls,” Sansa sighs. “Let’s get you home.”
“I’m hungry,” Jules declares, and Sansa nods absently as she leads them out of the building to their SUV. She checks her phone. It’s been almost an hour, and Jon hasn’t called her back.
Once she straps the girls into their seats, she gets into the driver’s seat, sets her phone into the mount that sticks to her dashboard, and calls Jon again. It rings and rings, and for the third time that day, she hears, this is Jon, leave a message. She hangs up. Then, pulling out of the parking space, she presses the bluetooth button on her steering wheel and says, “call Davos Seaworth.”
Calling Davos Seaworth, her car responds, and she hears the ringing start.
“Hello?”
“Hey Davos,” she says, breathing a sigh of relief. “Are you with Jon?”
“Sorry, no,” Davos says, and in the background she can hear lots of noise, but it doesn’t sound like shop noise. “I’m on vacation this week. At Storm’s End visiting family.”
Sansa bites off a curse, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to make sure her girls aren’t really paying attention. “That’s right,” she says, remembering that Jon had mentioned that the other day. “Sorry to bother you. I just can’t get ahold of him.”
“Well, you know how he is,” Davos laughs, and if Sansa weren’t so annoyed right now, she’d laugh too.
Back home, she forgets her annoyance for a little as she lets the dogs out, gets the girls washed up, makes dinner - or, she pulls out leftovers, because that’s all she feels like doing right now. It’s already six and the girls have started to whine and that’s not helping.
She gets them settled at the table, then steps away and picks her phone up.
Jon hasn’t called yet.
For the first time, worry worms its way beneath her skin.
She dials again. This is Jon, leave-
Hangs up. Calls Sam.
“Hey!” her voice is bright - too bright. Too perky. “Is Jon with you?”
“No,” Sam says, sounding completely confused.
“Have you heard from him today?”
“Um, I think he texted me this morning about poker,” Sam says. Then a pause, and he comes back sounding more sure. “Yeah, this morning, around ten. I answered that I can make it. He sent a thumbs up. Did you teach him emojis?”
“Hmm?” Sansa asks, her focus barely on the conversation. “Oh, yeah. The thumbs up is the only one he likes.”
“Everything okay?”
That worry is there, Sam’s question making it start to pulse and thrum and grow. A creature with its own beating heart, slowly filling her skin. “Oh. Yeah, everything’s great! He just isn’t answering his phone. Typical Jon.”
There’s a pause, because… well, it isn’t typical Jon. Not really. Yes, he’s left his phone on silent and forgotten it during the work day before, but Jon was supposed to be done work over two hours ago.
“Yeah,” Sam finally says. She hears the confusion still in his voice.
“Gotta go!” she tries, but the words get caught in her throat, sticking and balling up and creating a lump. Before Sam can respond, she ends the call.
A giggle comes from her right, and she looks over at her girls. They’re making faces at each other, not a care in the world.
She’s being ridiculous. Jon is fine. He just got caught up in a project, and without Davos there to rein him in, he’s completely lost track of time.
But someone needs to rein him in, and so she makes another call.
“Ugh, it’s been such a day, how did you know I needed to vent?” Margie sighs dramatically.
Sansa forces herself to give a light laugh, because she isn’t worried. Everything is fine. “Look, I’d love to talk about whatever client is being a complete monster, but I have a favor to ask.”
“It’s a bridezilla,” Margie sing-songs, as if she’s trying to tempt Sansa with juicy gossip. Which Sansa would normally love to hear, just not now. Even though everything’s fine. She’s fine, the girls are fine, Jon’s fine. He isn’t dead in a ditch on the side of the road.
“Could you possibly come over and watch the girls for like… a half hour? Jon isn’t answering his phone and I need to go drag him away from whatever project he’s working on, but the girls are eating and I just-”
Her voice catches, and she snaps her mouth shut, but it’s too late. The silence on the other end says Margie heard it.
“Okay,” Margie says, calmly and carefully. “Of course I will.”
Sansa hangs up, and then she stands in the kitchen, watching the girls eat, her phone clutched in her hand. Just in case, she unlocks it and dials and-
This is Jon, leave a message.
It’s six thirty by the time Margie arrives. Almost three hours since Jon should have left work to go pick up the girls.
“I’m sure he just put his phone on silent and got distracted by a project,” she tells Margie as she jams her feet into her boots. She doesn’t bother to lace them as she quickly shrugs on her jacket.
“Of course,” Margie agrees. Sansa ignores the look on her face.
“Girls, be good for Aunt Margie!” she calls, and the girls give a series of delighted shrieks. Aunt Margie babysitting always means secret snacks that mom and dad aren’t supposed to know about, even though their sugar high always gives it away.
Outside, the sun is fading quickly, and she gets back behind the wheel and drives the familiar roads to the industrial part of town, to the concrete warehouses where Jon and Davos’s workshop is.
Her relief is palpable when she sees Jon’s car in the lot, and she parks next to it. By this time, most of the workers from the nearby businesses are gone, their windows dark. Even the parking lot lights haven’t turned on yet, though the days are getting shorter and it’s getting dark earlier.
When she steps out of her car, a chill runs up her spine.
It’s getting cold out, she tells herself. The slamming of her car door seems to echo in the nearly empty lot, bouncing off the concrete buildings.
She makes her way up onto the sidewalk, then the few steps to the shop. Seaworth & Snow Custom Woodworking is decaled on the front door. She remembers how proud she was when Jon’s name got added. She remembers how pleased Jon was, even though he wouldn’t admit it.
The door is unlocked, and she pulls it open and steps into the small office space that fronts the workshop area. There’s a receptionist desk, even though they don’t have a receptionist.
She once filled that role, back when Jules and Nora were just babies. She would have them in a playpen in the corner, while she fielded calls from the rich housewives that had discovered the up-and-coming custom furniture builders that had just been featured on the Luxe Interiors & Design website.
Sometimes she misses working here, even though it’s always been her dream to be a journalist.
A journalist, not a junior editor.
With a frown, she pulls open the door to the workshop area - slowly, just in case. She worked here for years and once startled Davos so bad, he almost cut off his fingers with a power saw.
The door creaks open, and she peers in. The overhead lights are on, because the high windows don’t let enough in, even during the day, but that’s the only thing that’s on. There’s no buzzing of machinery or noise of any kind.
Her mouth and throat are suddenly bone dry.
“Jon?” she calls out. Her voice is small, but it echoes around the large room. The panic she has been suppressing for hours rises suddenly, forcefully.
He’s hurt. One of the machines malfunctioned and-
She steps into the workshop and makes her way down the rows of work tables, each one piled with a different, half-finished project. Her eyes sweep the floors, looking for Jon, looking for blood, but there’s nothing. All she sees is sawdust, which means Jon hadn’t cleaned up after himself.
Jon always cleans up after himself.
The workshop is empty, but that isn’t right.
She hurries back out and goes to the other door in the office, the bathroom, but that’s empty, too. No blood there, either. At this point, she can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
Panic grips her full force, she doesn’t think she’s felt it this bad since the first time she left Jules overnight - instead of a fun beach trip, she had sat around in the hotel room panicking, and they’d cut the weekend short so she could go back and collect her baby from her mother’s house. She and Jon hadn’t even had a chance to have sex, which she’s pretty sure had been the whole point of the trip.
She tries to remember what Jon told her back then, in the car as he drove them home. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Again. Not too quick, slow and steady.
Her eyes sweep the room for any clues - clues, like she’s in a fucking cop drama.
Finally they land on the reception desk, on the calendar. She can see Jon’s familiar handwriting scrawled all over it, along with Davos’s. She had set up a calendar and a scheduling program on the computer for them, but both of them insist they like paper better.
On today’s square, she can see the words Redwyne delivery, 2pm.
A delivery.
A delivery!
Of course, he’s out on delivery and lost track of time.
For almost five hours? that horrid voice whispers in her head. His car is still here.
The delivery was probably too big for his SUV or the business's pickup, and he borrowed a box truck from one of the other businesses. Maybe from Mott’s. Jon and Gendry get along.
There’s a phone number scrawled under the delivery reminder, and she calls it. Normally, she wouldn’t even think to call a client after hours, but that doesn’t even cross her mind now.
“Hello?” a clipped voice answers.
“Hello. I’m calling from Seaworth and Snow-”
“It’s about time!” the woman snaps, her voice nasally and high. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
Sansa’s heart plummets. “So… you didn’t get your delivery today?”
“Well my Snowball isn’t currently sleeping in a canopy bed, so no,” the woman sniffs.
Sansa barely listens to herself as she placates the woman and reschedules the delivery for Friday. Her hand shakes as she writes the new appointment on the calendar.
When she’s finally hung up, in a daze, she walks to the workshop. There, on the workbench closest to the door, is a small, canopied dog bed.
“You should build one for Lady and Ghost,” Sansa had teased the day Jon got the order. She remembers laughing at his answering scowl.
He never left on delivery.
Suddenly, she doesn’t want to be here, in this empty building where Jon isn’t. It’s too quiet. It’s getting too dark outside.
She locks the door on her way out and swipes open her phone and presses the call button again.
It rings and rings.
But there’s something else. Something new.
This is Jon, leave a message.
She hangs up, but she can’t shake the feeling she just heard something. On instinct, she presses the call button again, but doesn’t lift the phone up. Without the call tone blaring in her ear, she can hear it - a buzzing.
A small, dark rectangle lays in the parking lot, not far from Jon’s truck, a sliver of light peeking from the bottom edge as it vibrates on the blacktop.
She presses the end button on her call, and it stills.
She calls again, and it starts to buzz.
There, face down in the parking lot, is Jon’s phone.