PART 3
I reached for Maddie’s little cup. It weighed almost nothing. I stood, walked into their kitchen, and turned the faucet anyway, even though I already knew what would happen.
A dry cough.
Then silence.
The sink was filled with dirty cereal bowls. A saucepan sat on the stove with dried macaroni stuck to the bottom. The refrigerator hummed when I opened it, but inside there was only half a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, ketchup, and one carton of milk that had expired three days earlier.
PART 4
“Don’t let my husband find them… he wasn’t supposed to know I survived.”
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood her.
“Amber,” I whispered, gripping the kitchen counter, “your husband?”
“He isn’t Bentley’s father,” she said between painful breaths. “His name is Travis. We divorced before Maddie was born. He… he found me again.”
The room seemed to tilt.
I looked through the doorway toward the living room where Bentley slept curled around his little sister on the couch. His arm was wrapped protectively around her, even in sleep.
“You’re in the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
There was a long pause.
“St. Vincent in Indianapolis.”
Nearly sixty miles away.
“How did you end up there?”
Her breathing became uneven.
“He pushed me.”
I closed my eyes.
Not because I didn’t believe her.
Because suddenly every strange thing from the last nine days made horrible sense.
“He came to the apartment Monday morning,” Amber continued. “He wanted money. I told him to leave. He shoved me into the bathtub.”
I remembered Bentley saying she had fallen in the bathroom.
“He ran before the ambulance came. I told Bentley to tell everyone I fell.”
“Why would you protect him?”
“I wasn’t protecting him,” she whispered. “I was protecting the kids. If I accused him while he was still free… he’d come back.”
My stomach tightened.
“Does he know where you live?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know about Maddie?”
Another pause.
“I never told him she existed.”
I stared out my kitchen window into the darkness beyond the porch.
Somewhere out there was a man who believed Amber had died—or wished she had.
PART 5
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Like a man who believed fear belonged to him.
The sidewalk between his truck and my porch suddenly felt far too short. My phone was still pressed against my ear.
“Mrs. Whitaker?” Detective Harris said sharply. “Are you still there?”
“He’s walking to my house.”
“Get inside. Officers are two minutes out.”
Two minutes.
At seventy years old, I had learned something about time. Two minutes could pass like nothing during a happy afternoon. But when danger was walking toward your grandchildren in everything but blood, two minutes could become an eternity.
I backed through my front door without taking my eyes off the man.
Then I locked it.
The deadbolt clicked.
The chain slid into place.
Behind me, Bentley was already standing in the hallway with Maddie hidden behind his legs.
“Miss Arlene…”
“Upstairs,” I said calmly. “Take Maddie to my bedroom. Lock the door.”
