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When the kids are asleep and the world is dark, I crawl into my closet and cry. I give myself fifteen minutes. It’s ugly and dark, full of hatred and rage. Then I sweep up the pieces and tuck them away.
“Jeanie. It happened,” I say into the phone.
“Oh, shit.” My sister’s voice drops. “I’m fucking coming. Don’t you let that asshole take everything. You listen to me now?—”
I close my eyes, though why I don’t know. I’m already in the dark. “I think I need to come home.”
Chapter 1
Cammie
Thirteen Months Later
“Mom.”
Ben tugs on my shoulder, and I struggle to open my eyes, the sandpaper grit of my double shift at the diner weighing them down.
“Mom. You have to wake up. It’s Em.”
I force myself to move, my back and limbs stiff as I fumble off the couch. My foot sinks into a basket of unfolded laundry. I must have fallen asleep trying to get through a load of clothes for tomorrow. I trip around the plastic ledge but right myself, turning to Ben.
“What time is it?” I yawn, my eyes refusing to cooperate in the bright overhead light.
Ben yanks on my arm, dragging me through the living room and toward the front door. “Her bike is gone, and the door was open.”
My mind is fuzzy from sleep, but Ben’s frantic voice works like a caffeine jolt, making my heart race. “When? Shit.”
Shit. I said shit.
But cursing in front of my ten-year-old just dropped off the list of fucks I have to give. At the age of four, Emmaline is a master escape artist. When she was three, she took apart the screen porch hinge, effectively unlocking the door to chase after a bunny she saw in the neighbor’s yard. And I’ve lost count of how many times she’s built a ladder with her wagon and toys to climb onto the kitchen counter and “rescue” a batch of cookies.
I do a double take at the open front door, noting the plastic fishing hook she pilfered from a game. She used it to flip the lock, aided by the wooden kitchen chair she parked by the door.
A full-on escape was imminent. Hence, the top latch. But a middle-of-the-night jailbreak? Oh, Gods. I won’t make it if I keep getting outsmarted by my four-year-old.
“You go that way,” I urge Ben.
He swallows hard, his dark hair dipping into his eyes and his face pinched in worry. “I’m scared. What if?—”
I can’t let either of us think the worst, not right now. “Me too, but she couldn’t have gotten far. Call out if you find her.”
I squeeze his hand, then my feet fly across the wet grass. I round the corner, calling for Emmaline. It’s early, and our sleepy little neighborhood in downtown Knotty Pines is still except for the occasional dog bark. But there is no sign of Em. The manicured lawns of the historic homes are dotted with antique flaming candles, probably changed out for those fancy solar ones. They carve out glowing orange orbs in the darkness, helping me mark my way down the street. But even with the light, I don’t see any trace of Em.
My breathing picks up, a mixture of panic and dread. Fear pumps through me, and I bite my lip to keep focused so I don’t lose my shit even more than I already am.
I check the intersection at the end of block, but the universe doesn’t send me any breadcrumbs. I decide to keep going, making it to the next street before taking a left. Rounding the corner, I’m met with foreboding blue and red lights bouncing off a white colonial-style home.
I squint into the flashing lights and spot a tricycle with long handle-bar streamers.
Emmaline.
Time stops and starts again as I consider one garish possibility after another. Every muscle locks in terror, then I burst into motion as I run for my daughter.A thousand horrific possibilities crash into me all at once before I make it to her. She is distorted in the brash light, and it takes too long for my mind to catch up to the scene before me.
My heart hiccups and trips over itself with anguish then blessed relief.
Emmaline appears unharmed. She’s wearing her spiked helmet, backward but buckled, and a pair of PJs. No shoes.Is my lost four-year-old crying? Is she scared, like her momma and brother, that she’s alone in the middle of the night?
Nope.
