Chapter 2 - The Unraveling of the Front
We moved across the muddy backyard like three shadows in the storm. The rain was relentless, pounding against the metal roof of the garage, drowning out the sound of our boots in the grass.
When we reached the side entrance, Deputy Miller unclipped a heavy, steel entry tool from her vest. Hendricks leaned his ear against the damp wood, tapping three times with his knuckle—the exact sequence I had used moments earlier.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
From inside, a weak, muffled sob broke through the wood, followed by two desperate, scraping knocks against the lower panel.
"Police department! Emily, are you in there?" Hendricks called out clearly.
"M-Mom?" a raspy, broken voice whimpered from behind the deadbolt. "Help me... please, it's so cold..."
Hendricks didn't hesitate. He gestured to Miller. "Breach it."
Deputy Miller jammed the wedge of the steel tool between the doorframe and the fresh brass deadbolt. With one powerful, leveraged thrust, the cheap pine frame splintered with a loud, violent CRACK.
The door swung inward, revealing a pitch-black, unheated storage bay that smelled of damp concrete, gasoline, and copper.
Miller clicked on her high-lumen tactical flashlight, sweeping the beam across the floor.
My breath caught in my chest, a cold spike driving through my ribs.
Emily was sitting on a bare concrete floor in the far corner, huddled beside a rusting lawnmower. She was wearing a thin t-shirt and sweatpants, both soaked through with condensation. Her wrist was tethered to a steel structural support beam by a heavy-duty industrial zip-tie. Her face was pale, bruised, and smeared with dirt, her lower lip split and swollen. Beside her sat an empty plastic water bottle and a discarded cell phone with a shattered screen.
"Oh, sweet baby," I breathed, dropping to my knees beside her on the freezing concrete, disregarding the mud soaking through my slacks.
"Mom!" Emily sobbed, collapsing against my chest as I wrapped my dry oilskin coat around her shivering shoulders. Her body was shaking so violently her teeth clicked together. "You came... you didn't leave..."
"I never left, Emily," I whispered into her damp hair, my fingers gently checking her pulse, which was rapid and thready. "I never left."
Deputy Miller immediately pulled out her shears, cutting the heavy zip-tie from Emily’s raw, bruised wrist. "Medical team is en route," Miller radioed into her shoulder lapel. "We have a confirmed Code 30. Victim secured, visible physical trauma, signs of severe hypothermia."
While Miller tended to Emily, Officer Hendricks turned toward the interior access door that connected the garage to the main house kitchen. The door was locked from the kitchen side.
Hendricks drew his sidearm, holding it at low-ready, and slammed his heavy boot against the lock plate.
BOOM.
The interior door burst open, crashing against the drywall of the utility room.
Inside the warm, brightly lit kitchen, Daniel was standing near the refrigerator holding a block of cheese, while Patricia sat at the counter with her wine glass halfway to her lips.
Both of them froze, their faces turning the color of curdled milk as Officer Hendricks stepped into the light, his uniform soaked, his expression thunderous.
"F-Frank?" Daniel stammered, his voice dropping an octave as he dropped the cheese onto the counter. "What the hell is this?! What are you doing breaking into my house?!"
"Daniel Corey," Hendricks announced, his voice booming through the spotless, open-concept home. "Turn around and place your hands behind your back."
"Are you insane?!" Patricia shrieked, jumping up from the barstool, her glass spilling cabernet across the pristine white quartz. "This is private property! My son is a senior executive at Sterling Financial! You can't just storm in here!"
"Your son is under arrest for felony kidnapping, domestic battery, and unlawful imprisonment," Hendricks said calmly, stepping forward and forcing Daniel’s hands behind his back, clicking the steel handcuffs tightly around his wrists.
"It's a mistake!" Daniel yelled, struggling against the restraint as Deputy Miller escorted a shivering, blanket-wrapped Emily through the doorway, supported by my arm around her waist. "Officer, my wife is mentally unstable! She’s been having an episode! We put her in there for her own safety until her doctor called back! Ask her mother! Margaret, tell him!"
Daniel looked at me, his eyes wide with a manic, manipulative plea. "Margaret! Tell him she’s been sick! You know how she gets!"
I stopped in the middle of his spotless kitchen. I looked at Daniel—really looked at him—with the clinical, detached gaze I used when evaluating a forged signature on a deed.
"You took her ring, Daniel," I said softly, pointing a finger at the silver chain hanging around his neck. "You locked her in a room without heat in forty-degree weather. And you told me she went on a retreat."
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I turned my eyes to Patricia, who was standing frozen against the counter, her lips trembling as she realized her precious family name was about to be splashed across the morning crime blotter.
"And you," I said to Patricia, my voice dropping into a register that made her step backward against the sink. "You told me she couldn't breathe because I was hovering. By tomorrow morning, Patricia, you will find out what it truly feels like when the room runs out of air."
