Chapter 175

Agnes

I arrived at the office earlier than usual the next morning, my mind already racing with the plans I’d formulated during my restless night. Sleep had been impossible—every time I closed my eyes, I saw those tiny bones illuminated by flashlights. So instead, I’d channeled my grief and anxiety into something productive. Something that might help others.

Maria was already there, sorting through fabric swatches for the summer line. She looked up in surprise when I burst through the door, still buttoning my blazer.

“Agnes! I wasn’t expecting you today,” she said, her eyes widening as she took in my appearance. I hadn’t bothered with makeup, and my hair was pulled back in a hasty ponytail. Not exactly my usual polished self.

“I need to talk to you about the summer line,” I said, dropping my bag on my desk and pulling out my sketchbook. “I want you to take over production.”

Maria blinked. “Me? But that’s your project—”

“You can handle it.” I flipped open my sketchbook to the rough sketches I’d made at 3 AM. “I have a new idea that I need to focus on.”

I handed her the folder containing all my summer designs. “You’ve been working with me long enough to know my vision for this line. I trust you to bring it to life.”

Maria took the folder, still looking uncertain as she flipped through the sketches of flowy floral dresses, comfortable yet sexy bathing suits, and practical beach bags. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m flattered, but...”

“I’m sure.” I squeezed her shoulder. “You’re ready for this responsibility. And I’ll still be around if you need guidance.”

The relief on her face was immediate. Maria was the best designer in the department, and I knew she was more than capable. More importantly, delegating the summer line would free me up to work on my new project.

Once Maria had left to start organizing her thoughts, I spread my sketches across my desk. The idea had come to me in the darkest part of the night, as I lay awake thinking about the cave search.

Survival bags.

Not just any bags, but multifunctional ones designed specifically with safety in mind. Ones that could potentially save lives in emergency situations—like an abduction, a hiking accident, or… worse.

I envisioned a gender-neutral design, sleek enough to be fashionable for everyday wear but practical enough to be useful in dire situations.

The structure of the bag itself would incorporate survival elements—paracord woven into the straps that could be unwound if needed, a lining that could be removed and used as a thermal blanket, pockets specifically designed to hold essential items.

By midmorning, I was completely absorbed in my work, barely even looking up from my sketches to go to the bathroom or drink coffee.

The concept was evolving rapidly—what if the fabric itself was waterproof? What if the bottom compartment contained a built-in flint and steel for fire starting? What if the entire bag could be unfolded into a tarp for an emergency shelter?

I was so focused that I almost missed the knock at my door. Getrude poked her head in, a concerned look on her face as she pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

“Agnes? Are you okay? Maria told me you were here, but...” She trailed off, taking in the chaotic state of my desk.

I glanced up, blinking as if emerging from a trance. A quick look at the clock told me that it was one in the afternoon, the usual time that Gertrude and I would meet for lunch and catching up. “I’m fine. Just working on something new.” I gestured vaguely at my sketches. “A survival bag.”

Gertrude stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. “I heard about what happened at the cave. Elijah called me. I’m so sorry, Agnes.”

The sympathy in her eyes threatened to crack the fragile composure I’d been maintaining. I swallowed hard, refocusing on my sketches. “Thanks,” I managed. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

“Of course,” she said gently. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I was about to refuse when a thought struck me. “Actually, yes. You have extensive records of pack personnel in the library. Do you know of any suppliers for specialized safety equipment? Things like pepper spray, emergency flares, rape whistles—that sort of thing.”

Gertrude raised her eyebrows but didn’t question my request. “I can consult the digital records and see.” She hesitated, lifting the lunchbox in her hands. “But lunch…”

“I’m not hungry,” I said more abruptly than I meant to.

My friend looked a little disappointed, but I knew she would understand. With a nod, she left, and I immediately got back to work.

Within an hour, she had emailed me with a list of potential suppliers who met our ethical sourcing standards. I spent the afternoon contacting them, explaining my concept and inquiring about bulk pricing for items that could be integrated into my bag design.

Most were enthusiastic about the project, especially when I mentioned that we were planning to unveil it at the Goddess Festival as part of a charity initiative for missing persons. A few had concerns about pack laws regarding self-defense items, but I was prepared for that.

“The items would be completely legal,” I explained to one particularly cautious supplier. “We’re talking about safety whistles, not switchblades. And the pepper spray would be the standard strength allowed for civilian use in our territory.”

I wanted these bags to provide real protection, not just a false sense of security. Each feature had to serve a purpose, had to potentially make the difference between life and death in an emergency situation.

The following days blurred together as I threw myself completely into the project. I barely noticed the passage of time. I arrived at the office before sunrise and left long after dark, sometimes sleeping on the small couch in my office rather than going home.

Elijah brought me changes of clothes and meals that I often forgot to eat. He tried to convince me to come home and rest, and I knew the weight I was starting to lose was concerning him, but he seemed to understand my need to keep busy, to channel my grief into something constructive while we waited for the DNA results.

“Just don’t forget to take care of yourself,” he said one evening, pressing a kiss to my forehead before leaving me to my work. “I need you in one piece.”

I promised I would try, but the truth was, working was easier than facing my feelings. When I was focused on draft angles and material tensile strength, I wasn’t thinking about my baby’s bones lying in a police lab. When I was negotiating with suppliers, I wasn’t dwelling on the DNA test that would either confirm or deny what my heart already knew.

By the end of the second week, I had moved from the design phase to the first prototype.

The main bag was constructed from a waterproof, tear-resistant fabric that could withstand extreme conditions. The straps contained thirty feet of military-grade paracord that could support up to 550 pounds. The lining could be removed and used as a thermal blanket, reflecting up to 90% of body heat.

Each feature had been meticulously researched and tested. I’d spent three days just perfecting the compartment that held the flint and steel, ensuring it was easily accessible yet secure enough not to open accidentally.

Another two days went into designing the extendable cords for the whistle and pepper spray, making sure they could be reached quickly in an emergency without becoming entangled in the rest of the bag.

Every decision was guided by a single question: Would this save someone’s life?

The work consumed me, becoming an obsession that pushed everything else to the back burner. I stopped having lunch with Gertrude, declined Evelyn’s calls, barely even made it home in time for dinner with Thea and Elijah most nights.

The days blurred together, weekdays indistinguishable from weekends. I worked through meals, through nights, through moments I admittedly should have been present for other things.

One particularly frustrating afternoon, I was struggling with a redesign of the panic button compartment. The supplier had informed me that their newest model was slightly larger than the specifications I’d based my design on, which meant adjusting the entire side panel of the bag.

I was hunched over my desk, surrounded by sketches and fabric samples, my fingers stained with ink from the markers I’d been using to color-code the different safety features. My hair had fallen from its clip and was now hanging around my face, but I barely noticed.

The panic button had to be accessible with one hand, had to be protected from accidental triggering, and had to adhere to pack safety regulations. I’d been working on this redesign for hours, scrapping and redrawing the same section over and over.

I was so absorbed that I didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t notice the presence in my office until a shadow fell across my desk.

“Agnes.”

I looked up, startled, to find Elijah standing there in a dark suit, his hair neatly combed, his expression somewhere between concern and irritation. He looked ready for a formal event, while I looked like I’d been dragged backwards through Hell.

“Elijah? What are you doing here?” I glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was already late afternoon. “Is something wrong?”

“Agnes, have you forgotten what today is?”

I stared at him blankly, my mind racing to catch up. What day was it even? Tuesday? Wednesday? I’d lost track completely. With the Goddess Festival in just three days and the prototype needing to be ready for unveiling by then, I didn’t even know up from down anymore.

“What?” I asked, pushing hair out of my face and leaving a streak of blue ink across my cheek in the process.

Elijah’s shoulders slumped. “So you did forget. Thea has her first solo violin recital today.”