That was twenty minutes ago.
I text it in then wait. And wait. And wait some more.
It’s growing dark when headlights sweep across the street.
A beat-up truck pulls into the driveway, engine rattling before it cuts off. The driver’s door swings open, and a big man stumbles out—mid-forties, ruddy face, the swollen nose of a serious drinker. He moves around to the passenger side and yanks open the door.
“Get out,” he barks. “And stop your sniveling.”
A small figure climbs down from the truck. A little girl, maybe five or six, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit to her chest. Even from here, I can see she’s been crying.
Jesus Christ.
The man grabs the girl’s arm—too rough, way too rough—and hauls her toward the house. “Inside. Now. And if I hear one more word about your sister, I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Sister. Isabel’s her sister.
Son of a bitch.
That’s why she was so desperate to get back. Not a boyfriend. Not drugs. Not some shady deal. A kid. A little sister trapped in this hellhole.
Well, I feel like a fucking dick.
They disappear inside. Lights flicker on.
A dog starts barking somewhere nearby. Loud. Insistent.
The front door bangs open again.
“Shut that fucking mutt up!” the man bellows toward the neighbors house. He stomps down the porch steps, weaving slightly, and heads across the yard toward the source of the noise.
I’m out of the car before I consciously decide to move.
I work my way through the shadows until I find the side door and ease it open, staying quiet. The house hits me with the stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and neglect. It’s the sour smell of a place where hope died a long time ago.
I’m far too familiar with the scent.
From somewhere upstairs, I hear voices that are soft and urgent.
“Izzy!” A child’s whisper, thick with tears. “Why did you leave for so long? I was scared.”
“Shh, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m here now. I’m going to get you out, okay? We’re leaving. Right now.”
“Is Daddy going to be mad?”
“Daddy’s not going to know. We’re going to be quiet, like mice. Like we practiced, remember? Can you do that for me?”
“Like mice,” the little girl repeats.
“Good girl. Now grab Mr. Flopsy and your purple shirt. We have to be fast.”
I move to the bottom of the stairs, pressing myself against the wall. Through the front window, I can see the stepfather still at the neighbors fence, gesturing angrily, his voice carrying across the yard.
Hurry up, Isabel. He’s not going to be distracted forever.
Drawers open and close upstairs. Soft footsteps. The rustle of clothes being shoved into a bag.
“What about my princess cup?” the little girl asks.
