Chapter 4 - The St. Jude Necklace
The sterile glare of the County General emergency room felt blinding after the dim yard.
Emily sat on the examination table swinging her thin legs, an IV line taped securely to the back of her small hand. Dehydration and exhaustion had carved dark hollows under her eyes, but she refused to lie back against the pillow.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, baby. I'm right here." I sat on the vinyl stool beside her, holding her cold fingers between both of my rough, calloused hands.
"Can we go home to your apartment?"
"Soon as the doctor finishes the blood work. I promise."
"No promises," she whispered, looking down at the white hospital sheets. "You break them when the machines stop working."
Every word felt like a punch to the gut. "I won't leave you again, Em. Not for work. Not for anything."
The door slid open. Detective Vance walked in. She was a no-nonsense woman in her late forties, wearing an unbuttoned trench coat over a rumpled pantsuit, a badge pinned to her belt. She held a clear plastic bag containing Sarah's silver St. Jude medal.
"Mr. Miller? Can we speak in the corridor for a minute?"
I glanced at Emily. "I'll be right outside the glass door, okay? You can see me the entire time."
Emily didn't answer; she just gripped the edge of the mattress.
I stepped out into the tiled hallway. "Did Jason talk?"
"Jason’s in an interrogation room with a public defender, claiming he suffered a psychotic break," Vance said bluntly. "He says he doesn't know where Sarah went. He claims she packed a bag three days ago and walked out toward the bus depot."
"That's garbage. The hard drive—"
"The hard drive is with our digital forensics unit. But here's the problem, Mr. Miller." Vance lifted the evidence bag holding the necklace. "We found this in the glove compartment of Jason's pickup. The chain was snapped."
"He ripped it off her."
"Maybe," Vance said, leaning against the wall. "Or maybe someone else did. Because we ran the license plate of the sedan that was parked three doors down from your ex-wife's house all afternoon."
"Whose car was it?"
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"It’s registered to an LLC out of Delaware," Vance said, narrowing her eyes. "An LLC that specializes in commercial refrigeration equipment and logistics. Your employer, Mr. Miller. Why was one of your company vans idling down the street while your daughter was locked in a cage?"
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