I can’t breathe. My chest goes tight as my vision blurs.
Where could they be?
I fumble for my phone and dial Talia, whispering, “Please, please, please,” under my breath. Nobody answers. Instead, a quiet buzzing comes from somewhere inside the apartment.
I turn, heart pounding, and spot her phone on the floor by the couch.
The screen is cracked, as if someone stepped on it.
I don’t know what else to do. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop my phone when I dial 9-1-1.
“What’s your emergency?” a female voice asks on the other line.
“My son… my sister… they should be here.” My voice is thin and shaking. “The apartment’s a mess. Their things are everywhere. My sister’s phone is here, broken. I think… I think they’ve been taken.”
She walks me through question after question.
When did I get home?
Where was I before this?
When did I last talk to Talia?
Did I notice any signs of injury? Any blood? Any struggle?
I try to answer everything, but my brain feels scrambled, like nothing wants to line up right. She tells me an officer will be here in ten minutes.
It’s the longest ten minutes of my entire life.
When the knock finally comes, I realize the door’s still open from when I ran inside.
Officer Mendoza steps in, a dark-haired man in his forties, calm in a way that makes me want to collapse.
The moment I see him, I start crying again. Hard.
He waits. Patient. Quiet.
He doesn’t rush me.
Once I manage to speak, he asks the same questions the dispatcher did. Then he slowly scans the room, taking everything in.
“I’ll call for someone to dust for prints,” he says, then turns back to me. “Is there anyone who would want to hurt you… Or your sister?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
But as soon as I say it, I picture that Irishman, Marcus O’Rear, from Liam’s lawn. The way he looked at me, the crowbar in his hand.
But that doesn’t make sense. Why would he care about me? He doesn’t even know who I am. I have nothing to do with Liam’s father’s debt.
Right?
At some point, I end up on the couch, rocking back and forth, hugging myself tight.
My baby. My baby. I whisper it again and again.
Where is my baby?
The police are everywhere, dusting for prints, searching for anything that might help. They discuss checking with neighbors, looking for security cameras in the building, and hoping to find footage.
