The Girl Who Disappeared (The Assassin Series - Book 1)

By sunset, the day had already become the kind of memory people try to keep safe.

After everything we had survived, there was something sacred about being surrounded by the people we loved. The kind of moment you don’t rush through. The kind you hold onto, because life has taught us too many times how quickly peace could be taken away.

We were all gathered together to celebrate the anniversary of the Sparrow’s organization. Family, friends, accomplices. And Nate had prepared everything.

It was a surprise to no one but me when he dropped to one knee in the middle of the anniversary barbecue and asked THE question I never thought I would hear from him.

“Will you marry me?”

Funny, isn’t it?

We had been together for decades. Everyone knew we had never planned a wedding. We had never wanted one. It wasn’t us. We were never flashy people. We had built a life in quieter ways, through loyalty, scars, children, losses, and a love that had already survived more than most vows ever could.

But Nate had thought of everything.

He chose the Sparrow’s anniversary because he knew everyone would be there. Our family. Our friends. The people who had become both. The people who had seen us young, broken, stubborn, reckless, and somehow still standing.

And now, here we were.

The sun had gone down hours ago, and we were gathered around the fire pit in the backyard after a full day of celebration. The air smelled of smoke, grilled food, and late summer grass. Someone was laughing. Someone else was telling a story too loudly. The younger ones were sitting close together, whispering like they thought we couldn’t hear them.

I watched their faces in the firelight, and for a moment, I wasn’t entirely there anymore.

Memories came the way they always did when I felt too happy.

Quietly at first.

Then all at once.

St. Margaret’s.

The missions.

The family we lost.

The family we found.

The reunions we thought would never happen.

It hadn’t always been laughter. It hadn’t always been warmth and music and children running barefoot through the yard. There had been tears. Fights. Betrayal. Abandonment. Years of silence. Years of blood.

But there had also been a union.

That was what brought us back to each other.

That was what saved us.

“Mom, do you hear me?”

Dora’s voice pulled me back.

I blinked and looked across the fire pit. She was watching me with that look all my friends had mastered — half concern, half accusation.

“Sorry, honey,” I said, forcing a smile. “What did you say?”

My friends exchanged glances.

They knew.

They always knew when my mind had slipped somewhere else.

“I said we’d like to know more about St. Margaret’s,” Dora said. “And how you became the Assassin.”

The laughter around the fire softened, then faded.

I felt the change immediately.

So did Nate.

His hand, resting near mine, went still.

I let out a small laugh, but even I could hear how thin it sounded.

“I don’t think that’s the kind of story we should be sharing today.”

A few voices murmured in agreement around the fire.

“I agree,” someone said.

“Not tonight.”

“Let’s leave that one alone.”

Nate leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but careful.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “Before training. Tonight, let’s just enjoy this.”

But the younger ones had never been easy to distract.

“But what’s the big deal?” Sabrina asked, sitting up straighter. “We know the version everyone tells. We know the ‘clean’ version. Why can’t we know the full story?”

The clean version.

That almost made me smile.

There was no clean version of my life. Only the one we had learned how to tell without frightening the children.

I looked around the fire pit. At my brothers. At the women who had become my sisters. At my friends. The people who knew pieces of me even when sometimes I wished they didn’t.

Then I looked back at our children, nieces, nephews, and everyone who had inherited pieces of our story.

“Because stories like mine are not meant for happy moments,” I said softly. “They carry too much weight. Too much grief. Too many ghosts. You don’t open them in the middle of laughter unless you’re ready for the laughter to leave.”

No one answered.

The fire cracked between us.

For a moment, even the younger ones seemed to understand.

But only for a moment.

They had been asking for the truth for years. Not the polished truth. Not the family-safe version. The real one.

And maybe that was our fault.

We had raised them to question silence. To look behind locked doors. To never accept half an answer when the whole one mattered.

Maybe it was time.

Nate turned toward me.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly.

I looked at him, and in his eyes I saw the boy he had been, the man he had become, and every terrible thing we had survived between those two versions of him.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

The firelight moved across his face as he nodded.

I drew in a slow breath and looked back at the circle.

“Okay, children,” I said. “I’ll tell you how it began.”

Then I glanced at the others.

“And I hope the rest of you will help me fill in the blanks.”

No one joked this time.

No one interrupted.

They were all listening now.

I looked into the fire.

“Stories like mine don’t begin with blood and betrayal,” I said. “Not the way people think they do.”

The flames bent with the wind.

“They begin with love.”

You’d think our family was as wealthy as the Waltons, or as famous as the Royal family, considering everything that happened to us.

A few of the younger ones smiled.

“But we weren’t,” I continued. “Not really. We were an average middle-class family. At least, that was what we became once we settled in East York, Toronto.”

Nate’s thumb brushed over my knuckles.

He knew that word.

Settled.

For most people, it meant peace.

For us, it was the beginning of something else.

“So let me start from the real beginning,” I said.

Our parents were high school sweethearts.

Dad claimed it was love at first sight. Mom insisted he had to work for her attention first.

Theo laughed from the other side of the fire.

“She made him work,” he said. “Don’t let Dad’s version fool you.”

“She absolutely did,” Devon added, shaking his head. “He followed her around like a lost puppy for months.”

The circle softened with laughter, and for a second, I could almost see them again.

Daniel and Eleanor.

Young.

Stubborn.

Alive.

“Somewhere between the two versions was probably the truth,” I said.

They went to college in New York together, and after graduation, instead of spending money on a huge wedding, they bought backpacks, train tickets, and plane tickets.

“Our grandparents were horrified,” I said.

Marty snorted. “That’s putting it kindly.”

“They thought Mom had ruined her future,” Devon said, his voice quieter now. “And Dad had encouraged it.”

“But Mom and Dad didn’t care,” I said.

And that was one of the first things they taught us without ever sitting us down for a lesson: love did not need permission from people who only understood status.

For almost fifteen years, they traveled across Europe and parts of Africa, dragging seven boys — and eventually one girl — along with them.

“Dragging?” Frank repeated, offended. “It was delightful.”

Jackson laughed. “You once cried for two hours because a train station in France didn’t have the pastry you wanted.”

“I was a child with standards.”

Even Nate smiled at that.

I let the laughter settle before I continued.

None of us were born in North America.

Devon was born in Brussels. Fourteen months later came Marty in London, followed by John in Amsterdam nine months after that. Frank arrived in Lyon two years later. Then came Jackson in Málaga, Leo in Lagos, and Theo in Linz.

Seven boys in less than ten years.

Sabrina’s eyes widened. “Grandma was a warrior.”

“She was,” Leo said softly.

The way he said it made the fire seem quieter.

“Mom used to joke that after surviving seven sons, the universe owed her peace and quiet,” I said. “Instead, it gave her me.”

That earned a round of laughter.

“I was born in Budapest two weeks after Theo turned three. Their only girl.”

“The spoiled one,” Jackson said.

“The protected one,” Devon corrected.

“The terrifying one,” Theo added.

I pointed at him. “Only because you taught me.”

He grinned, but his eyes were shiny in the firelight.

I looked back at the younger ones.

“Until I was five, the world felt like home. Airports, train stations, tiny apartments, crowded markets, unfamiliar languages — that was normal to us. I thought everyone lived that way. I thought everyone’s childhood came with new countries, new streets, and new words for bread.”

The kids smiled.

I did too.

“But the last place I remember loving before everything changed was Trondheim, Norway.”

For a moment, the backyard faded.

I could almost feel the cold again.

“At the time, we had been living there for almost a year, and to me it felt magical. I barely remember it clearly now. Only fragments.”

The sharp cold that made my cheeks ache when I laughed too hard.

Rows of colorful wooden houses near the water, looking like something out of a storybook.

Dad carrying me on his shoulders while snow collected in my eyelashes.

Theo and Leo throwing snowballs at the older boys while Mom bought warm cinnamon pastries from a tiny bakery that smelled like sugar and coffee.

Sometimes I think childhood memories feel softer because we leave them before they have the chance to become ordinary.

“Our house there was small,” I said, “but I loved it.”

It had narrow stairs that complained under everyone’s feet, windows that fogged when we cooked, and a small room at the back where my mother kept books in every language she could find.

She said a child who could read in many languages could never truly be trapped.

I believed everything my mother said.

Eleanor was the kind of woman who made the world feel ordered, even when it wasn’t. She had soft hands, sharp eyes, and a way of knowing when one of us was lying before we had finished the sentence.

Our father, Daniel, was different.

He laughed loudly, hugged tightly, and acted like life was an adventure he had personally invited us into.

Together, they made chaos feel safe.

And with eight children, there was always chaos.

Devon tried to act like a second father. Marty was the clever one, always watching before speaking. John collected facts the way other children collected stones. Frank could charm punishment out of anyone. Jackson fought first and explained later. Leo was gentle, which made him braver than most people understood. Theo followed everyone around like he was afraid the family might leave without him.

And then there was me.

The youngest.

The only girl.

The one everyone thought needed protecting.

“I still remember the day they told us we were leaving Norway,” I said.

The fire shifted in front of me.

For a second, I was five again.

We were all in the kitchen. My brothers were arguing over bread, my father was pretending not to hear them, and my mother was correcting my pronunciation in German while stirring something on the stove.

Snow tapped softly against the window.

Theo stole the last piece of fruit from my plate.

Jackson kicked him under the table.

My mother said his name once, only once, in that voice that made all of us sit straighter.

Then my father cleared his throat.

That was when I knew something was wrong.

Daniel Jenkins was many things, but careful was not usually one of them. He did not clear his throat before speaking. He simply spoke, laughed, sang, announced, declared.

That morning, he looked at my mother first.

Then he looked at us.

“We’re going home,” he said.

The older boys went quiet.

I frowned.

“Home?” I asked.

“To Canada,” Mom said gently. “To Toronto.”

I stared at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence. Waiting for her to say for a few weeks. For a visit. For Christmas. For one of the reasons adults always gave before we packed again.

But she didn’t.

Dad tried to smile.

“We’re going to stay close to your grandparents for a while.”

“How long is a while?” Marty asked.

Mom and Dad looked at each other.

Devon saw it first. I know he did, because his face changed.

“Permanently,” Mom said.

The word meant nothing to me.

Not really.

But the room understood it before I did.

John stopped chewing.

Frank looked at the table.

Leo reached for Theo’s sleeve.

Theo looked at me.

I looked at my mother.

“No,” I said.

The boys laughed softly at first, because I was five and small and dramatic.

But I was not joking.

“No,” I said again, louder. “I don’t want to.”

Mom came around the table and crouched in front of me.

“I know, little star.”

“Then don’t make us go.”

Dad’s face softened in a way I did not understand then. Now I know it was guilt.

“It’s time,” he said.

“But I like it here.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want Canada.”

“I know.”

“You always say the world is our home.”

Mom’s eyes filled with something she did not let fall.

“It is,” she said. “But sometimes families need roots too.”

I hated that answer.

Roots sounded like being stuck.

Roots sounded like a tree forced to stand in one place forever while the whole world moved without it.

I did what any reasonable five-year-old would do.

“She ran,” Theo said laughing, reminiscing the memory on his own.

I ran out of the apartment without shoes, without a coat, and without a plan that made sense to anyone but me. I made it as far as the church near the corner and hid behind it, shaking from cold and fury.

Theo found me first.

“Of course he did”, Leo said quietly.

Dora looked across the fire at him.

“You found her?”

Theo nodded. “She was furious.”

“I was heartbroken,” I corrected.

“You were five,” he said. “You threatened to move back to Norway by yourself.”

“I had a plan.”

“You had a cookie and one mitten.”

The kids laughed, and I laughed with them, even though the memory still ached in a place I rarely touched.

Theo had sat beside me in the snow that day and said nothing for a while.

That was rare for him.

Then he took the cookie from my hand, broke it in half, and gave part of it back to me.

“You can’t go back to Norway alone,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know how to buy a train ticket.”

“I can learn.”

“You’re five.”

“I’m smart.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’re crying.”

That made me cry harder.

Theo sighed like I had personally ruined his life, then took off his scarf and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“If we have to go to Canada, we’ll hate it together,” he said.

I looked at him through tears.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Across the fire, Theo smiled faintly.

“I kept that promise,” he said.

“You did,” I said.

For a while, at least.

A month later, we left Norway.

I remember the airport more than the flight. Mom counting heads over and over. Dad carrying too many bags and pretending he was not tired. Devon keeping the passports close to his chest like a soldier with orders. Marty trying to make me laugh. John reading every sign. Frank complaining about the food. Jackson and Leo arguing over the window seat. Theo holding my hand so tightly our fingers hurt.

I did not understand then that my parents were not only choosing Toronto.

I did not understand that people can call something a family decision when fear is sitting quietly underneath it.

To me, we were simply leaving magic behind.

And when we arrived in Toronto, everything felt too still.

East York was ordinary.

Our neighborhood was ordinary.

The houses looked too similar. The streets felt too flat. People spoke one language at a time. Nobody packed a bag unless they were going on vacation. Nobody treated train stations like doorways to a new life.

I hated it.

I had no friends.

Our cousins were obnoxious brats who thought they were better than us, and our grandparents never really understood our family. They fought with our parents constantly.

“They hated how we were raised,” John said from across the fire.

“No,” Devon corrected softly. “They hated that Mom and Dad didn’t ask for approval.”

That landed harder than any joke had.

I nodded.

Our grandparents wanted polished children. Quiet children. Children who understood manners, reputation, and money.

Our parents had raised travelers.

Readers.

Fighters.

Children who knew how to sleep in train stations, order food in different languages, and question adults when something didn’t feel right.

Especially me.

In the beginning, Toronto felt like punishment.

I missed hearing different languages around me. I missed moving. I missed feeling like the world was enormous.

But time is strange when you are a child.

The thing you hate becomes familiar.

The street you refuse to love becomes the one you know by heart.

The house you swear will never be home starts collecting your laughter in its walls.

Toronto became home slowly.

Then all at once.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the first lesson Toronto taught me.

You can lose one life and still build another.

I looked around the fire pit, at the faces watching me.

“At five years old, I thought leaving Norway was the worst thing that had ever happened to me,” I said.

A few of the adults lowered their eyes.

They knew what came later.

“I was wrong.”

The fire cracked between us.

“Toronto gave us almost five good years before the name St. Margaret’s ever entered my life.”

Dora leaned forward.

“Almost five?”

I nodded.

“I was nine, almost ten, when I first heard it.”

Nate’s hand tightened around mine.

“And by then,” I said softly, “I had already started to understand that my parents had not brought us to Canada only to be closer to family.”

No one spoke.

Not even the children.

I looked back into the fire.

“There was another reason.”

I paused.

“But before I understood that reason, there was Toronto. There was school. There were my brothers.”

Jackson lifted his beer.

“And there was the first time Mom and Dad were called to the principal’s office.”

I closed my eyes.

“Oh, no.”

Theo laughed.

“Oh, yes.”