Chapter 2: The Apartment I Escaped
I didn’t remember standing up.
One second, I was staring at the address on my screen.
The next, I was across the dispatch floor with my coat in my hand.
My legs moved before my brain could catch up.
“Where do you think you’re going?”” Hank’s voice cut through the room.
I stopped.
Everyone was watching.
The other dispatchers pretended not to look, but I saw their eyes flicking toward me. They had heard the call. They had heard the little girl.
They knew something was wrong.
I turned around slowly.
“To Westbrook.””
Hank’s expression hardened.
“No.””
I almost laughed.
“No?””
“You are not involved in that scene.””
“I know that building.””
“That’s exactly why you’re not involved.””
I stared at him.
The words landed harder than they should have.
Because he was right about one thing.
I wasn’t looking at a random address on a computer anymore.
I was looking at my childhood.
My nightmare.
The place I had spent twenty years trying not to remember.
“I lived there,” I said quietly.
The room became completely silent.
Hank’s face changed.
Just slightly.
But I noticed.
“You knew?””
He looked away.
That one movement told me everything.
“Hank.””
“Not here.””
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean, not here?””
He lowered his voice.
“You need to calm down.””
“Calm down?”” I whispered.
“A six-year-old girl is hiding in the same apartment where I used to hide.””
Hank looked toward the other operators.
Then back at me.
“Come with me.””
I followed him into the small supervisor office near the back of the dispatch center.
The moment the door closed, I turned on him.
“How did you know?””
Hank didn’t answer immediately.
He walked to the window and looked out at the empty parking lot.
Rain slid down the glass.
Finally, he said, “Because I know the address.””
My chest tightened.
“How?””
He sighed.
“You’re not the first person connected to that place.””
“What does that mean?””
“It means there’s history there.””
I stepped closer.
“What history?””
Hank looked exhausted.
Not angry.
Not annoyed.
Exhausted.
“The Westbrook apartment has had calls before.””
I felt my throat tighten.
“Domestic calls?””
He didn’t answer.
That was enough.
“How many?””
“Lena—”
“How many?””
His silence was the answer.
I looked away.
My mother’s face flashed through my mind.
The way she used to cover bruises with makeup.
The way she always smiled too quickly when neighbors asked if everything was okay.
The way she whispered to me at night:
If you ever have children, make sure they know what love is supposed to look like.
I was ten years old when I realized my mother was afraid of my father.
I was twelve when I realized fear could become a person’s entire life.
I was sixteen when I left.
But I never forgot that apartment.
Not really.
“You should have told me,” I said.
Hank’s voice softened.
“Would it have changed what you did?””
I didn’t answer.
Because we both knew.
No.
It wouldn’t have.
A knock came at the door.
One of the dispatchers, Maya, opened it slightly.
“Unit 14 is on scene.””
My heart stopped.
Hank and I both turned.
“What’s the status?”” Hank asked.
Maya looked at me.
Then at him.
“They’re inside.””
I stepped forward.
“What happened?””
Maya hesitated.
“There’s a problem.””
My stomach dropped.
“What problem?””
She looked down at her notes.
“The apartment door was already open.””
I felt cold.
“What?””
“The officers entered. They found signs of a struggle.””
“Emma?””
Maya’s expression changed.
“We don’t know yet.””
I grabbed the radio.
“Put me through.””
Hank reached for it.
“No.””
“Let me talk to them.””
“You’re emotionally compromised.””
“She’s six years old.””
“And you lived there.””
I stared at him.
“You think I don’t know that?””
The radio crackled.
A male officer’s voice came through.
“Dispatch, we have a possible victim.””
Everyone froze.
I grabbed the microphone.
“Officer, this is Lena. What’s your location?””
There was a pause.
Then:
“Who is this?””
“My name is Lena Carter. I’m the dispatcher who received the call.””
Another pause.
“Dispatch, we need medical response.””
My fingers tightened.
“Why?””
No answer.
“Officer, why do you need medical?””
The officer’s voice became quieter.
“Because we found the mother.””
My heart pounded.
“And Emma?””
Silence.
That silence was worse than anything.
“Officer?””
“We’re still searching.””
I closed my eyes.
The apartment.
The closet.
The little girl hiding.
I could picture it.
Because I had been there.
I knew the exact closet.
I knew the loose floorboard underneath the carpet.
I knew the tiny crack near the door where I used to watch my father walk down the hallway.
“Officer,” I said quickly, “check the bedroom closet.””
Hank looked at me.
“What are you doing?””
I ignored him.
“Behind the coats. There’s a gap in the back wall.””
The officer came back instantly.
“Dispatch, repeat?””
“Bedroom closet. Back panel.””
“How do you know that?””
My voice shook.
“Because I hid there.””
The room went silent again.
The officer didn’t respond for several seconds.
Then:
“Copy.””
I gripped the microphone so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Everyone was watching me.
Nobody spoke.
Then I heard movement through the radio.
A door opening.
A voice.
“Got something.””
My breath caught.
“What?””
A pause.
Then:
“Small child located.””
My eyes closed.
Relief hit me so hard I almost collapsed.
“Is she alive?””
Another pause.
“Yes.””
I covered my mouth.
“She’s alive.””
Maya whispered, “Thank God.””
But then the officer spoke again.
“She’s scared.””
I leaned toward the radio.
“Can I talk to her?””
Hank immediately shook his head.
“No.””
I looked at him.
“She knows my voice.””
“That’s not how this works.””
“Please.””
He hesitated.
The officer came back.
“Child keeps asking for Lena.””
My blood went cold.
“She knows my name?””
I remembered.
I had never said my full name.
Not once.
The officer answered.
“She said the dispatcher sounded like someone.””
My heart sank.
Someone.
Someone from the past.
I took the microphone.
“Emma?””
For several seconds, there was nothing.
Then a tiny voice.
“Are you there?””
I swallowed hard.
“Yes, Emma. I’m here.””
A shaky breath.
“I thought he found me.””
My eyes filled.
“He didn’t.””
“He was looking for me.””
“I know.””
“Are you mad?””
The question broke something inside me.
“No.””
“I didn’t mean to call.””
“You did the right thing.””
“My mommy said never make him angry.””
I froze.
The room disappeared.
“What did you say?””
Emma sniffed.
“My mommy said never make him angry.””
I looked at Hank.
He looked away.
Because he understood.
This wasn’t a single bad night.
This was a pattern.
“Emma,” I said softly, “where is your mommy right now?””
The little girl became quiet.
Then whispered:
“She told me to run.””
My heart stopped.
“Run from who?””
The radio crackled.
Then Emma answered.
“From Daddy.””
I felt the air leave my lungs.
Daddy.
The word echoed through me.
Because I knew what came next.
I knew the man who lived in that apartment.
The man whose voice I heard through the phone.
The man who had made my childhood feel like a prison.
But that couldn’t be possible.
It had been twenty years.
My father was gone.
He was supposed to be gone.
I looked at Hank.
“Who owns apartment 3B now?””
He didn’t respond.
“Hank.””
His jaw tightened.
“Lena…”
“Who lives there?””
He slowly looked down at the paperwork on his desk.
Then he said something that made my entire body go numb.
“The lease holder.””
A pause.
“The name on the file is Daniel Carter.””
I stopped breathing.
My father’s name.
The same name I had spent half my life trying to forget.
“That’s impossible.””
Hank watched me carefully.
“Is it?””
I stepped backward.
“No.””
Because Daniel Carter had disappeared when I was sixteen.
The police said he abandoned us.
My mother said he was never coming back.
Everyone told me the same thing.
He was gone.
But someone had just answered a little girl’s call from my childhood home.
And that little girl had called him…
Daddy.
The radio crackled again.
The officer’s voice came through.
“Dispatch.””
I grabbed the microphone.
“Yes?””
“We have a situation.””
My fingers tightened.
“What kind of situation?””
A pause.
Then:
“The suspect is not inside the apartment.””
My heart started pounding.
“Then where is he?””
Another pause.
The officer’s voice lowered.
“He left something behind.””
I waited.
“What?””
The officer took a breath.
“Dispatch… there’s a photograph on the kitchen table.””
I frowned.
“A photograph?””
“Yes.””
“Of what?””
The answer came slowly.
“Of a young girl.””
My blood turned cold.
“Describe it.””
The officer hesitated.
Then:
“Brown hair. About sixteen years old.””
I stopped.
Because I already knew.
“Lena,” Hank whispered.
I stared at the radio.
The officer continued.
“The back of the photo has writing on it.””
My voice barely worked.
“What does it say?””
A long silence.
Then:
“It says…”
The officer paused.
“‘You were lucky to escape me once.’”
I couldn’t move.
I couldn’t breathe.
Because I knew exactly who had written those words.
And I knew something else.
May you like
My father hadn’t disappeared.
He had been waiting.
