Chapter 2: The Seven-Hour Nightmare
"Is she alive?" I asked, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles turned white as bone.
"She’s breathing. But she won’t look anyone in the eye. Won’t say a single word. I’m taking her straight to the ER."
Then I heard it—tiny, shaky breathing in the background. Sarah. Trying so hard not to make a sound, like she was scared even existing would get her in trouble.
"Chris—what did you see?"
"Just drive. And bring every photo you have of Sarah from the last three months. Every single one."
He hung up before I could push more.
The GPS said seven hours to Chicago. It felt like seven years. Rain hammered the windshield so hard I could barely see the white lines. The cheap gas station coffee tasted like burnt cardboard. Every mile screamed the same thing in my head: You trusted them. You left her. And they left her bleeding alone.
Three hours in, a text popped up from Melissa: Stop being so dramatic. She’s fine. Go back to your meeting before you embarrass us.
I stared at it until the words blurred. Fine? My kid was sitting in the cold driveway covered in blood, and she called me dramatic?
I texted Chris back: Melissa just messaged. She knows I’m coming.
He replied ten seconds later: I know. And she’s not the only one watching your house.
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