I know that because I played it so many times on the drive that the number burned itself into my brain. Eight seconds. Eight seconds that split my life cleanly into before and after.
“Daddy,” my daughter said, her voice trembling so hard it sounded like it was breaking apart, “please come. I’m in danger.”
There was a thud after that. A sharp scrape, like a chair leg dragged across wood. Then a sound I couldn’t identify—half gasp, half cry. Then silence.
No second message. No text. No location pin. Nothing.
I was standing in the service bay of my auto shop outside Worcester when it came through at 4:12 p.m. My hands were black with motor oil. A customer’s truck was up on the lift behind me. For one frozen second I stared at the screen and told myself there had to be some explanation. Bad joke. Pocket recording. Teen drama blown out of proportion.
Then I called Emily back.
Straight to voicemail.
