Chapter 18 Finding Emma
Olivia: POV
I walked into the kitchen and found Mom staring at her phone, anxiety etched across her face. Two days had passed since Emma left, leaving nothing but a hastily scribbled note declaring her refusal to attend military school. The note had sent our household into a tailspin of worry and guilt.
"Still no word?" I asked, setting my laptop bag on the counter.
Catherine looked up, dark circles under her eyes. "Nothing. Her phone's still going straight to voicemail, and none of her friends claim to know where she went." Her voice cracked slightly. "What if something's happened to her?"
I sat beside her, placing my hand over hers. "Mom, she's smart enough to stay safe. She just needs some space to cool off."
Mike walked in, coffee mug in hand, his usually perfect hair slightly disheveled. Even he wasn't immune to the tension that had settled over our home.
"I've got some contacts keeping an eye out," he said, leaning against the counter. "Police, hotels, transportation hubs—we'll find her."
I nodded gratefully. Despite our occasional differences, Mike had always been protective of our family.
"That girl needs to learn some hard lessons," he added with a sigh. "It might actually be good for her to spend some time out there on her own."
"Mike!" Mom shot him a disapproving look.
"What? I'm just being honest." He shrugged. "I just think we can't keep spoiling her like this. Once she goes out there and faces the harsh realities of the world, she might be willing to come back."
I bit my tongue, fighting the urge to defend Emma. Our relationship was complicated at best, hostile at worst, but she was still my sister—at least in all the ways that mattered.
I understood her identity crisis better than anyone. After all, I'd gone through my own version when I discovered I wasn't actually a Parker by blood.
"Mom, Dad—Mike and I promise we'll find her," I said firmly. "We'll have someone check every possible location. Try not to worry too much."
Dad entered the kitchen, looking exhausted. "Your mother barely slept last night."
"I keep imagining her alone on the streets," Mom whispered.
I squeezed her hand. "Emma's tougher than you think. And she's resourceful."
Even as I spoke the reassuring words, my mind raced with possibilities. Had she gone back to the Sullivans? The thought made my stomach clench. They'd exploit her vulnerability in a heartbeat.
"I should get to work," I said, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "I've got meetings all day, but I'll keep my phone close. The second we hear anything, I'll come home."
---
At Radiance Inc., I threw myself into work, partly to distract myself from family drama, but mostly because we had a major product launch approaching. My office was covered with marketing materials, sample products, and sticky notes detailing the thousand things that needed my attention.
"These focus group results are promising," I muttered to myself, reviewing the data on our new organic skincare line.
The numbers were good, but something felt off about our approach. Our traditional marketing strategy—glossy magazine ads and celebrity endorsements—wasn't generating the same buzz it once had. The beauty industry was evolving rapidly, with consumers increasingly valuing authenticity over aspirational imagery.
I opened a new document and began typing furiously:
RADIANCE INC. MARKETING REVOLUTION: PROPOSAL
My fingers flew across the keyboard as I outlined my vision for transforming our brand's connection with consumers. Direct engagement through social media, transparent sourcing practices, user-generated content showcasing real results—ideas that had been percolating in my mind for months.
A knock at my door interrupted my flow. "Olivia, the product development team is waiting in Conference Room B," my assistant reminded me.
"Thanks, I'll be right there." I saved the document, promising myself I'd return to it later.
The meeting dragged on for three hours, with passionate debates about packaging, pricing, and distribution channels. By the time we reached consensus, my brain felt like mush.
Back in my office, I returned to my proposal, determined to finish a draft before heading home. I wanted to create a comprehensive consumer survey that would guide our strategy moving forward. We needed to understand what today's beauty consumers truly valued: ingredient transparency? Sustainable practices? Community engagement?
My phone buzzed just as I was crafting questions about purchasing preferences. A text from Rachel.
[Rachel]: Free for dinner tonight? Need to talk to you about something. Harper & Associates, 7pm?
I checked the time—almost 6:30. The marketing revolution would have to wait.
[Olivia]: I'll be there in 30.
---
Rachel's law office occupied the top floor of a sleek downtown building. When I arrived, she was already putting on her coat.
"Perfect timing," she said, greeting me with a quick hug. "There's this new fusion place around the corner I've been dying to try."
I followed her to Spice & Grain, a cozy restaurant with ambient lighting and eclectic décor. After ordering, Rachel immediately dove into discussing a high-profile divorce case she was handling. Typical Rachel—all business, even during dinner.
"Enough about my client's messy prenup," she finally said, taking a sip of her wine. "How are things with you? Any more surprise visits from your ex?"
I shook my head. "Jason's been suspiciously quiet since he confronted me days ago." I paused, debating whether to mention Emma's disappearance, but Rachel picked up on my hesitation.
"What's wrong? You've got that crease between your eyebrows that only appears when something's bothering you."
I sighed. "Emma ran away two days ago. Left a note saying she wasn't going to military school—which wasn't even a definite plan, just something my parents were considering after her latest rebellion."
Rachel's expression shifted to one of concern. "That's why I wanted to talk to you tonight."
My heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean?"
She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. "I saw Emma yesterday."
"You saw her? Where?" The words tumbled out.
"In Millbrae. I had a deposition there yesterday afternoon and stopped for a bite afterward." Rachel took another sip of wine before continuing. "She's working as a waitress at this little diner called Sunrise Café."
I sat back, processing this information. "Are you sure it was her?"
"Positive. She's dyed her hair darker and was wearing this hideous polyester uniform, but it was definitely Emma." Rachel reached for her phone. "I almost texted you immediately, but I wasn't sure how you'd want to handle it."
"How did she seem?" I asked, trying to picture Emma, who'd never worked a day in her life, serving food to strangers.
Rachel considered this. "Honestly? She looked exhausted. But also...determined, I guess. She was hustling between tables, carrying plates, taking orders—doing the job, you know? Not throwing tantrums or expecting special treatment."
A strange mix of relief and concern washed over me. At least she wasn't with the Sullivans, which had been my worst fear. But waiting tables in a diner? That had to be quite a shock to her system.
"Did she see you?" I asked.
"No, I made sure to sit in another server's section. I figured she might bolt if she recognized me."
I nodded, grateful for Rachel's thoughtfulness. "I should tell my parents she's safe."
"Are you going to go get her?"
That was the million-dollar question. Part of me wanted to drive to Millbrae immediately and bring Emma home. But another part recognized that might be exactly the wrong approach.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe she needs this experience. Like Mike said this morning, maybe she needs to taste the real world for a while."
Rachel nodded. "Sometimes people need to make their own way back home."
I smiled weakly, thinking of my own complicated journey with the Parker family. "Yeah, I know something about that."
"The Sunrise Café," I repeated, committing it to memory. "Thanks for telling me, Rachel."
Now I just had to decide what to do with this information.