We dive into planning my move in the fall. We talk about making it a long road trip and stopping at various attractions. I wish we could go to some local things like the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building. Everyone complains about those places being tourist traps, but I grew up here in New York, and I’ve never been to any of them.
A few screams and shouts of alarm ring out in the restaurant, and my stomach drops. My attention darts all around, looking for the cause of the commotion.
“Savannah, look at me.” Dad’s voice is grave.
My wide eyes zero in on him.
He looks sad. His lips are in a thin line and turned down at the corners. His eyes look like they’re going to spill over with tears. It’s a shock, almost jolting me out of my panic. I’ve never seen him cry. Never.
Dad’s tone drops. “No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what you hear about me, know that I love you so much.”
I shake my head, squinting. “I don’t understand. Daddy, what’re you talking about?”
Men dressed in navy blue windbreakers appear next to our table with guns drawn, aimed at Dad and me.
My face goes pale, and my breath gets caught in my lungs as I stare down the dark, empty barrels of eight guns.
“John Bartlett, hands in the air!”
My voice trembles. “Daddy?” I’m terrified to look away from the strangers. It’s like when a predator approaches. The prey never takes its gaze off the danger.
“Daisy.” Dad’s tone is commanding, so I obey and turn my head to him. “Everything is going to be okay.” Then he slowly lifts both palms to show that he’s not holding anything.
“You too! Hands in the air!”
I shift back and realize they’re yelling at me. It’s like I’m on autopilot. My hands raise, but it feels like I’m not the one doing it. It’s as if someone wrapped my limbs with a string and is playing me like a marionette.
“Leave her out of this!” Dad roars, and I flinch. I’ve never heard his voice get that loud before.
One man holsters his weapon and steps forward. I finally notice the yellow lettering on the chest of his jacket.
FBI.
The man reaches for Dad’s wrist and pulls him out of the booth. “John Bartlett, you are under arrest for the murders of twenty-four women.”
The click of handcuffs rings in my ears as he twists Dad’s wrists behind him.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
I finally find my voice. “There has to have been some sort of a mistake.” But everyone ignores me.
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
I make myself louder. “You’ve made a mistake! You’ve got the wrong man!”
Everyone still acts as though I haven’t spoken a word.
“Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?” The agent finally finishes his spiel.
Dad doesn’t look at me, an angry glare fixed above my head at no one in particular. “Yes.”
The agent behind Dad doesn’t wait another moment, escorting him out of the restaurant, followed by the rest of the agents.
This can’t be happening.
“Wait!” I jump from the booth and run after them, every customer and employee in the restaurant watching me. “Stop! Please!” I stumble over my feet as I make it to the sidewalk.
The entire curb is crowded with large SUVs, their emergency lights flashing on top. One agent opens the door of the vehicle in the middle to usher Dad inside.
