Chapter 2: The Note in the Purse
The police arrived twelve minutes later.
Twelve minutes was long enough for the Tennessee afternoon to turn strangely quiet.
Long enough for every car passing on the highway to sound like it might be the beat-up sedan coming back.
Long enough for Emma to stop crying and start shaking instead.
She sat on the curb outside the gas station, wrapped in a gray sweatshirt the attendant had given her. Her sneakers were dusty. A strand of hair hung across her cheek where the man had yanked it.
I crouched beside her.
“What’s your full name, Emma?””
She looked at me cautiously.
“Emma Grace Carter.””
“Okay. Emma Grace Carter.””
I tried to smile.
“That’s a beautiful name.””
She looked down.
“My mommy picked it.””
“What’s your mom’s name?””
“Sarah.””
The word came out so softly I almost missed it.
Before I could ask anything else, two patrol cars turned into the lot.
Emma’s shoulders jumped.
I noticed immediately.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Those are the good guys.””
She didn’t answer.
The first officer stepped out of his cruiser with one hand near his belt.
“Who called?””
The gas station attendant raised his phone.
“I did.””
The officer looked toward me.
“You the one who stopped the assault?””
“I was.””
His eyes went to my split knuckles.
Then to the shattered beer bottle still glittering on the pavement.
Then to Emma.
“What happened?””
I pointed toward the highway.
“Man was dragging her by the hair. He hit her—or was about to. I stopped him.””
“You know the man?””
“No.””
“He said he was her father,” the attendant added.
The officer looked at Emma.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?””
“Emma.””
“Last name?””
“Carter.””
He crouched down.
“Is that man your father?””
Emma shook her head.
“No.””
“Who is he?””
“My stepdad.””
“And does he have permission to take you?””
Her lips parted.
She looked at me.
Then at the officer.
“No.””
The officer's expression changed.
“Okay.””
His partner came around the front of the cruiser.
“Sir, did the suspect leave in a vehicle?””
“Yes.””
“Description?””
“Gray four-door sedan. Beat-up. Passenger-side mirror cracked. Tennessee plate.””
“Do you have the plate number?””
I closed my eyes for a second.
I had seen it.
I just hadn't known I'd need it.
“Seven… maybe three?””
The attendant interrupted.
“Eight-six-seven KJQ.””
We both turned.
The attendant held up a receipt.
“I wrote it down when the car came in.””
The officer nodded.
“Good thinking.””
He spoke into his radio.
I looked back at Emma.
She had her hands clenched in the sleeves of the sweatshirt.
“Emma,” I said quietly, “the note you showed me. Where did your mom write it?””
She looked toward the highway.
“In her bedroom.””
“You said her purse was in the car.””
“No. The note was in my pocket.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Why did you have it?””
“Mommy gave it to me.””
“When?””
“Last night.””
“What did she tell you?””
Emma hesitated.
Then she whispered, “She said if Ricky came back, I had to hide.””
The officer heard her.
“Who’s Ricky?””
“My stepdad.””
The officer exchanged a look with his partner.
“And your mom?””
“She told me not to tell Ricky where she was.””
The officer’s voice softened.
“Where is your mother now?””
“St. Vincent’s.””
He frowned.
“There are a few hospitals in this area. Which one?””
Emma pulled the folded paper from her pocket.
The officer held it gently.
His eyes moved over the writing.
“Volunteer Regional?””
Emma nodded.
“Room 214.””
He looked at me.
I could see the question forming before he even asked it.
“Did the suspect say anything about the hospital?””
I shook my head.
“Only that Emma's mother was in one.””
Emma suddenly spoke.
“He said she wouldn't wake up.””
The officer turned back toward her.
“Did he tell you why?””
Emma's fingers tightened around the sweatshirt.
“He said she fell.””
“Fell where?””
“At home.””
“From what?””
“The stairs.””
The officer wrote that down.
“Did you see it happen?””
“No.””
“What did you see?””
Emma stared at the asphalt.
“Mommy was at the bottom.””
Her voice cracked.
“She was bleeding.””
The officer stopped writing.
“Was she conscious?””
“Her eyes were open.””
“Could she speak?””
Emma nodded.
“She told me to get my shoes.””
“What happened after that?””
“Ricky called somebody.””
“Who?””
“I don't know.””
“Then what?””
“He put Mommy in his truck.””
“Did he call an ambulance?””
Emma shook her head.
“He didn't.””
The second officer quietly muttered something into his radio.
I felt something heavy settle in my chest.
This wasn't just domestic abuse.
There was something else here.
Something worse.
The first officer studied the note again.
“Emma, who wrote this?””
“My mommy.””
“When?””
“Yesterday.””
“Before she got hurt?””
Emma nodded.
The officer handed me the note.
I looked at it again.
The handwriting was hurried. Slanted.
*DO NOT LET HIM TAKE EMMA.*
Nothing else.
But now the sentence felt different.
It wasn't a warning from a frightened woman.
It was a mother who knew exactly who she was afraid of.
The officer stood.
“I need you to stay here with your daughter until we sort out where she belongs.””
“She isn't my daughter,” I said.
He gave me a strange look.
“I know.””
Emma suddenly grabbed my sleeve.
“Don't let him take me.””
Her eyes were enormous.
I crouched again.
“I won't.””
The officer watched us for a moment.
Then he said, “Sir, unless you have somewhere safe for her to go, child services may have to get involved.””
“That's fine.””
Emma's face went white.
“No.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
“No foster home.””
Her voice became desperate.
“Please.””
She stood so fast the sweatshirt slipped from one shoulder.
“Please don't send me there.””
The officer held up his hands.
“Emma, nobody is sending you anywhere right now.””
“I know what happens.””
The way she said it made every hair on my arms rise.
The officer lowered his voice.
“What happens?””
Emma looked at him.
Then at me.
Then toward the road.
“He told me if I ever got taken away, he'd find me.””
The officer's jaw tightened.
“Who told you that?””
“Ricky.””
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
I pulled it from my pocket.
Unknown number.
For one second, I thought it might be the hospital.
I answered.
“Hello?””
Nothing.
Just breathing.
Then a man's voice.
Low.
Calm.
“You should've stayed out of it.””
Every muscle in my body locked.
I stepped away from Emma.
“Who is this?””
A quiet chuckle.
“You know exactly who this is.””
The officer looked up sharply.
I put the phone on speaker.
Ricky's voice came through again.
“You've got five minutes.””
“Five minutes for what?””
“For you to leave that little girl where you found her.””
I looked at Emma.
She was staring at me.
Terrified.
“Where are you?””
“Close.””
The line went dead.
The officer immediately held out his hand.
“Give me the phone.””
I handed it over.
“Can you trace it?””
“We're going to try.””
He signaled to his partner.
“Get dispatch to start a location request. Also notify the hospital.””
The gas station attendant came closer.
“What the hell is going on?””
I didn't answer.
I couldn't stop thinking about one thing.
Ricky had called my phone.
He hadn't called the station.
He hadn't called the police.
He had called me.
Which meant somehow he'd gotten my number.
Or he'd taken it from somewhere.
Neither possibility was comforting.
The officer looked at me.
“Did you give your number to anyone here?””
“No.””
“To the suspect?””
“No.””
The attendant shook his head.
“Not me.””
The officer's radio crackled.
He listened.
Then his face hardened.
“We have a problem.””
“What?””
“Hospital security just called.””
I stood.
“What happened?””
“Someone matching the suspect’s description was seen near the emergency entrance.””
My stomach dropped.
Emma heard him.
“Ricky?””
The officer nodded once.
“We don't know yet.””
Emma suddenly reached for my hand.
Her fingers were ice cold.
“Don't let him get Mommy.””
“I won't.””
The officer pointed toward the cruiser.
“Come on. We’re taking Emma to the hospital.””
I looked at him.
“I’m coming.””
He hesitated.
“Sir—”
“She doesn't know you.””
Emma squeezed my hand harder.
“Please.””
The officer looked at her, then at me.
Finally, he nodded.
“Fine. But you stay with the officers the entire time.””
We moved toward the patrol car.
Halfway there, Emma stopped.
“What?””
She was looking at the note again.
At the bottom.
There was a tiny smudge of blue ink.
I hadn't noticed it before.
She reached for it.
“Mommy wrote something else.””
The officer crouched beside her.
“What?””
Emma unfolded the paper completely.
There, beneath the warning, almost hidden along the crease, were six words written in much smaller letters.
*Ask David about the red toolbox.*
I stared at the sentence.
The officer's eyes narrowed.
“Who's David?””
Emma looked at me.
“I don't know.””
Then she pointed toward the gas station.
“The toolbox is in Ricky's trunk.””
And before any of us could say another word, a silver pickup truck slowly rolled past the station entrance.
Emma saw the driver.
Her face drained of color.
“That’s him.””
She grabbed my arm.
“That’s Ricky.””
The pickup stopped at the traffic light.
May you like
The driver's head turned.
Even from across the road, I could see him smiling.
