Emma. My granddaughter. Seven years old, with her mother’s bright eyes and my stubborn chin.
A cold dread coiled in my gut. “Where is Emma right now?”
“With them.” Anna’s voice dropped an octave, becoming something feral and barely human. A sound of absolute, maternal despair. “He said a homeless mother has no rights. He took my baby, Dad.”
I didn’t say another word. I stood up, the joints in my knees popping, and reached down to help her stand. She weighed almost nothing, a ghost of the vibrant woman she had been a year ago. I guided her to my truck, buckled her in, and turned the heater on full blast.
When we got to my house—the quiet suburban home where she had grown up—I led her to the bathroom. She stayed in the shower for an hour, scrubbing her skin until it was red, staying under the spray long after the hot water tank had run empty. While she washed away the alleyway, I stood in the kitchen and made tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Comfort food.
When she emerged, wrapped in my oversized flannel bathrobe, her hands shook so badly she could barely hold the spoon. She ate in silence. Every few bites, she would pause, stare at the scarred wood of the kitchen table, and whisper, “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry.”
I sat across from her. I didn’t offer empty platitudes. I didn’t tell her everything was going to be okay, because right now, nothing was okay. I let her finish her meal. Then, I stood up and walked into my study.
The study smelled of old leather, pine wood, and dust. I moved the heavy mahogany armchair, grabbed a step stool, and reached behind the top shelf of the built-in bookcase. I found the hidden latch, pressed it, and pulled the false backing away.
Behind it sat a heavy, fireproof steel safe. I dialed the combination. 34-12-68. The heavy bolts clicked back with a solid, satisfying thud.
I heard footsteps behind me. Anna stood in the doorway, frowning. “Dad? What are you doing?”
I swung the heavy door open. The interior smelled of old paper and gun oil. Inside sat neatly organized accordion files, sealed manila envelopes, digital hard drives, bank record templates, court transcripts, a holstered Glock 19, and a gold badge wrapped in a leather wallet that I had not worn in twelve years.
