PART 1 — “Can You Feed Buddy?”
My sister-in-law called me at eleven in the morning while I was reorganizing expired yogurt at the grocery store where I worked weekends for extra money.
Her voice sounded cheerful.
Too cheerful.
“Pau, sweetie,” Chloe said brightly, “can you do me a huge favor?”
I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear while scanning discount stickers.
“What happened?”
“We’re at Golden Lake Resort with the kids and Buddy, and everything ran late. Can you stop by the house later and feed him?”
That made me pause.
“With you?”
“What?”
“Buddy.”
I frowned.
“I thought you just said Buddy was at the resort.”
Tiny silence.
Then immediate recovery.
“Oh my God, no. Sorry. Brain fog.”
A little laugh.
“He’s home. We left in a rush.”
I stared at a yogurt expiration date while something uncomfortable brushed the back of my thoughts.
Chloe always recovered too quickly.
Nothing ever rattled her properly.
Not spilled wine.
Not screaming children.
Not dead car batteries.
Not funerals.
Especially not funerals.
I still remembered her perfect makeup at my mother’s burial three years earlier. Waterproof mascara. White blouse. Soft voice. She hugged people at exactly the right moments like someone performing kindness instead of feeling it.
“You still there?” she asked lightly.
“Yeah.”
“You’re an angel.”
Her voice turned sugary again.
“The key’s under the fern pot. Like always.”
I agreed before I could overthink it.
Because despite everything strange about Chloe—
the polished smiles,
the rehearsed warmth,
the tiny sharpness underneath every interaction—
she was still family.
At least technically.
After we hung up, I tried focusing on work again.
But Leo’s face kept appearing in my mind.
Five years old.
Huge brown eyes.
Tiny shoulders always curled inward like he expected the world to hit him eventually.
The last time I saw him was at Sophia’s birthday dinner two weeks earlier.
Everyone else ate tacos around the backyard table while Leo sat quietly beside the pool clutching his green dinosaur.
Rex.
That kid carried the dinosaur everywhere.
At one point I brought him lemonade.
“Thanks,” he whispered automatically.
Not unusual.
The weird part came after.
He took exactly two sips before setting the cup down carefully.
“You don’t want more?” I asked.
His eyes flicked nervously toward the patio where Chloe laughed loudly beside my brother.
Then quietly:
“If I drink too much, Mom gets annoyed because I need the bathroom.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Before he could answer, Chloe appeared behind us instantly.
“There you are.”
Her smile arrived too fast.
“Leo exaggerates everything.”
Leo immediately looked down.
Smaller somehow.
Chloe laughed softly and rubbed his shoulder in a way that looked affectionate from far away.
“He’s dramatic.”
She smiled toward me.
“You know how boys are.”
Actually,
I didn’t.
Because five-year-olds usually didn’t speak like tiny employees trying not to upset management.
That should have stayed with me longer than it did.
But people are good at explaining away discomfort when the person causing it looks polished enough.
And Chloe looked polished constantly.
Perfect house.
Perfect photos.
Perfect children in matching outfits on Instagram.
Meanwhile I lived alone in a small apartment over a nail salon and forgot to water plants regularly.
So who was I to judge someone else’s parenting?
Around four-thirty that afternoon, I finally left work.
The Arizona heat pressed against everything outside like a giant hand.
I stopped at a pet store on the way to Chloe’s neighborhood and bought:
- dry dog food
- wet food
- milk bones
Buddy loved milk bones.
By the time I reached the gated community in Scottsdale, the sun hung low and golden over rows of identical luxury homes.
Everything looked:
trimmed,
quiet,
controlled.
The kind of neighborhood where nobody yelled loud enough for neighbors to hear.
I parked outside Chloe’s house and grabbed the dog food bag from the passenger seat.
The driveway was empty.
No SUV.
No children’s bikes.
No sound.
Still normal.
I walked up the front path slowly.
The fern pot sat exactly where Chloe said it would.
Key underneath.
Like always.
When I unlocked the front door, warm stale air drifted outward immediately.
And something felt wrong.
Not dramatic wrong.
Quiet wrong.
I stepped inside carefully.
“Buddy?”
Nothing.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
No barking.
No nails clicking against hardwood floors.
No frantic golden retriever excitement.
Just stillness.
I frowned slightly and shut the door behind me.
“Buddy?”
PART 2 — “The House Was Too Quiet”
The silence bothered me immediately.
Not normal silence.
Not “everyone left for vacation” silence.
Wrong silence.
I stood in Chloe’s kitchen holding a bag of dog food while late afternoon sunlight stretched across the marble counters in long golden lines.
“Buddy?” I called again.
Nothing.
Buddy was a Golden Retriever.
Nothing about that dog had ever been quiet in his entire life.
Normally he:
- barked at delivery drivers
- barked at sprinklers
- barked because he loved existing
And the second someone opened the front door, he came flying across the house like happiness itself had grown fur.
But now?
Nothing.
I walked slowly farther into the kitchen.
The dog bowls sat near the pantry.
Empty.
Both of them.
I frowned.
Buddy’s water bowl was bone dry.
That made no sense.
Chloe obsessed over appearances.
And appearances included the dog.
Especially online.
Half her Instagram stories looked like luxury dog food commercials.
I set the grocery bags on the counter carefully.
The air inside the house felt stale.
Heavy.
As if the windows hadn’t been opened in days.
Something uncomfortable crawled slowly up my spine.
“Buddy?”
Still nothing.
I moved into the living room.
Everything looked perfect.
Too perfect.
The throw blankets folded sharply.
The coffee table spotless.
The family photos arranged carefully beside decorative candles nobody actually lit.
Chloe smiled from every frame.
Beach vacations.
Matching Christmas pajamas.
Poolside cocktails.
Children posed perfectly beside her like accessories.
And every time,
Leo looked slightly terrified.
I stopped in front of one photo from Easter.
Sophia smiled brightly beside a basket of candy.
Leo stood beside her clutching Rex, the green dinosaur.
His smile looked practiced.
Like he learned it somewhere instead of feeling it naturally.
I suddenly remembered another moment from last winter.
I had stopped by unexpectedly to drop off Christmas gifts.
Chloe answered the door wearing silk pajamas and expensive lipstick despite it being almost noon.
Behind her,
I heard something crash.
Then Leo crying softly.
Chloe didn’t even turn around.
“See?” she sighed dramatically.
“He destroys everything.”
I stepped inside and found Leo kneeling beside broken glass near the kitchen island.
He looked terrified.
Not guilty.
Terrified.
“It was an accident,” I told him gently.
He immediately shook his head.
“No.”
His voice trembled.
“I’m bad at holding things.”
That sentence hit me strangely even then.
Five-year-olds weren’t supposed to describe themselves like failed employees.
Back in the present,
I rubbed my arms uneasily.
The house felt too warm.
Too still.
I checked the backyard next.
Empty.
No Buddy.
No children’s toys.
No evidence anyone had been there recently at all.
Then the laundry room.
Nothing.
The downstairs office.
Nothing.
By now,
my heartbeat had started doing strange things.
Not panic.
Not yet.
But something underneath it.
Instinct maybe.
I returned to the hallway slowly.
The entire house seemed to hum with silence.
And that was when I heard it.
A sound.
Soft.
Almost nothing.
Like fabric dragging lightly across the floor.
I froze.
The noise came again.
Tiny.
Weak.
From the very end of the hallway.
The guest room.
My stomach tightened instantly.
That door stayed closed most of the time.
I walked toward it slowly.
Step by step.
The hallway suddenly felt much longer than before.
The sound stopped completely.
I stood outside the guest room door.
Closed.
Locked.
A key sat in the lock.
On the outside.
Cold prickles spread across my skin.
“Hello?”
No answer.
I swallowed hard.
“Is someone in there?”
Silence.
Then—
a tiny voice.
So weak I almost thought I imagined it.
“Mom said you weren’t going to come.”
ARC 1 — THE DOG THAT WASN’T THERE
PART 3 — “The Locked Door”
For one horrible second, I couldn’t move.
The voice was too small.
Too weak.
Not the voice of a child playing hide-and-seek.
The voice of someone who had already started believing nobody was coming.
My throat tightened painfully.
“Leo?”
A tiny sound came from behind the door.
Not quite a cry.
More like someone trying very hard not to make noise.
I reached for the handle instantly.
Locked.
My stomach dropped.
The key sat in the lock.
On the outside.
Cold panic shot through me so fast my hands started shaking immediately.
“Leo, sweetheart, it’s Aunt Paula.”
I pressed closer to the door.
“Are you okay?”
Silence.
Then softly:
“I tried to be good.”
Something inside me snapped.
I grabbed the key and turned it so hard it scraped against the metal.
The lock clicked open.
For one terrible second,
I hesitated.
Because some instinct already knew:
whatever waited inside that room was going to change something permanently.
Then I shoved the door open.
The smell hit first.
Hot air.
Sweat.
Urine.
Stale fabric.
Confinement.
The curtains were closed, turning the room dim and yellow-gray despite the Arizona sunlight outside.
And there—
on the floor beside the bed—
sat Leo.
My knees nearly gave out.
He looked impossibly small curled against the wall with Rex clutched tightly against his chest.
His hair stuck damply to his forehead.
His lips were cracked.
His oversized T-shirt hung off his shoulders like it belonged to another child entirely.
Beside him sat:
- one empty water bottle
- a napkin with crumbs
- nothing else
No toys.
No food.
No blanket.
Just a five-year-old boy locked inside a hot room.
“Jesus Christ…”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Leo blinked slowly when he saw me.
Not relieved.
Cautious.
Like he still wasn’t sure whether being found was good or dangerous.
I knelt immediately beside him.
“Oh my God, baby…”
I wanted to hug him.
But he looked fragile enough to bruise from touch alone.
“How long have you been in here?”
His eyes drifted toward the window.
Then back to Rex.
“Since Friday.”
The room tilted violently around me.
Friday.
It was Sunday afternoon.
Two full days.
I physically stopped breathing for a second.
“No…”
Leo nodded weakly.
“I was supposed to think about what I did.”
Cold fury flooded through my body so suddenly I almost felt dizzy.
“What did you do?”
His chin trembled.
“I got sick before the trip.”
I stared at him.
“You got sick.”
He nodded carefully.
“Mom said I ruined everything.”
My hands curled into fists automatically.
No child should know how to say sentences like that.
No child should look this afraid of existing.
I looked around the room desperately.
“Where’s Buddy?”
Leo swallowed hard.
“Mom took him.”
The air disappeared from my lungs.
Suddenly everything made sense at once:
- the phone call
- the fake errand
- the empty bowls
- the silent house
Chloe never needed someone to feed the dog.
She needed someone connected to the house.
A witness.
A backup story.
Maybe even a scapegoat.
Nausea rolled through me.
Leo tried pushing himself upright suddenly.
His arms shook violently under his own weight.
“I can walk,” he whispered automatically.
Then his knees buckled instantly.
I caught him before he hit the floor.
And the second I lifted him—
I realized how terrifyingly little he weighed.
Children should not feel this light.
He curled instinctively against my chest clutching Rex tighter.
“You’re burning up,” I whispered.
His forehead felt frighteningly hot.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
Immediately he panicked.
“No.”
His fingers grabbed my shirt weakly.
“Mom said not to leave the room.”
“Leo—”
“She’ll get mad.”
That broke something inside me completely.
Because even now—
even dehydrated,
locked away,
feverish—
his biggest fear was still upsetting her.
I stood up carefully holding him tighter.
“Let her be mad.”
He buried his face against my shoulder silently.
And as I carried him out of that room—
past the family photos,
the polished kitchen,
the perfect Instagram life—
I understood something horrifying:
some houses look beautiful specifically because nobody inside feels safe enough to make noise.
ARC 1 — THE DOG THAT WASN’T THERE
PART 4 — “I Only Brought Dog Food”
The Arizona heat hit me like a wall the second I ran outside.
Leo barely moved in my arms.
That terrified me more than anything.
Children were supposed to squirm.
Cry.
Fight naps.
Ask questions.
Not lie silently against your shoulder feeling lighter than a backpack.
I hurried across the driveway toward my car while my heartbeat slammed painfully against my ribs.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
“I’ve got you.”
Leo clutched Rex tighter.
Behind us, the front door of Chloe’s perfect house swung slowly shut on its own.
Click.
The sound made my skin crawl.
I strapped Leo carefully into the backseat.
His hands trembled while he held the dinosaur against his chest.
The seatbelt looked too big across his tiny body.
I slammed the driver’s door and started the engine so fast my keys scraped painfully against my fingers.
“Stay awake for me, okay?”
He nodded weakly.
The drive to the hospital felt endless.
Every red light looked personal.
Every slow driver felt evil.
I kept checking the rearview mirror constantly.
Leo’s eyes drifted shut again.
“Nope.”
My voice shook.
“No sleeping yet, buddy.”
I forced a smile he probably couldn’t even see.
“Tell me about Rex.”
His fingers tightened slightly around the dinosaur.
“He likes chicken nuggets.”
I almost cried immediately.
“Does he?”
Tiny nod.
“He hates peas.”
“Honestly?”
I swallowed hard.
“Same.”
For the first time, the corner of Leo’s mouth moved slightly.
Then he whispered something so softly I almost missed it.
“Mom said if you came… not to tell anybody.”
Ice flooded my stomach instantly.
I gripped the steering wheel harder.
“What else did she say?”
Silence.
Then finally:
“She said you’re nosy.”
The word sounded strange in his tiny exhausted voice.
“She said that’s why Dad shouldn’t talk to you anymore.”
My jaw tightened painfully.
Richard.
My brother.
Currently on a business trip in Dallas.
Or at least that’s what Chloe claimed.
The thought suddenly made me nauseous.
How much did he know?
How much had he ignored?
Leo shifted weakly in the backseat.
“Aunt Paula?”
“Yeah?”
“If Mom gets really mad…”
His voice trembled.
“…can Rex stay with you?”
That nearly destroyed me.
Because five-year-olds weren’t supposed to make emergency plans for emotional survival.
“Yes,” I said instantly.
“Rex can stay with me forever if he wants.”
Leo nodded faintly like that solved something enormous.
By the time I pulled into the emergency room entrance, my hands were shaking so badly I barely parked correctly.
I jumped out and yanked open the back door.
Leo tried apologizing immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
The words hit me like physical pain.
“For what?”
“For being heavy.”
I stared at him.
Then looked down at the child who weighed almost nothing in my arms.
And suddenly rage moved through me so hard it felt clean.
Someone had taught this little boy:
- taking up space was wrong
- needing help was wrong
- being sick was wrong
- existing inconveniently was wrong
No.
Absolutely not.
I carried him through the emergency room doors fast enough that people turned immediately.
“Help!”
My voice cracked loudly.
“It’s a child!”
Two nurses rushed toward us instantly.
One look at Leo and their expressions changed.
Professional calm.
Fast movement.
Real concern.
A doctor appeared beside us while they transferred Leo onto a gurney carefully.
“Is he your son?”
“My nephew.”
“What happened?”
The question shattered against me.
Because where do you even begin?
My sister-in-law locked him in a room for two days.
She lied about a dog.
She left him there alone while she drank cocktails at a resort.
The truth sounded insane even inside my own head.
“It’s complicated,” I whispered.
The doctor pulled back Leo’s sleeve gently.
Then his face hardened immediately.
“Get fluids started now.”
Everything moved quickly after that.
Machines.
IV lines.
Questions.
Nurses checking his temperature.
Leo barely reacted anymore.
That frightened me most of all.
One nurse handed me a clipboard while another adjusted blankets around his tiny body.
I stood there holding a bag of dog food like an idiot.
Dry food.
Milk bones.
Wet food.
That was all I brought.
Because I thought I was feeding a dog.
Instead,
I found a child locked away so quietly the world almost kept moving without noticing him at all.
The doctor returned several minutes later.
His expression looked grim now.
“This didn’t just happen today.”
My stomach dropped instantly.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced toward Leo sleeping beneath hospital blankets.
Then back at me.
“There are signs of prolonged neglect.”
A pause.
“Malnutrition too.”
The room went cold around me.
“No…”
The doctor’s voice softened slightly.
“We’re required to report this.”
Before I could answer,
my phone buzzed in my hand.
One new text message.
From Chloe.
Thanks for feeding Buddy.
PART 5 — “The Threatening Text”
For a second, I just stared at the screen.
Thanks for feeding Buddy.
My hands started shaking immediately.
Because now I understood:
Chloe knew.
She knew I had gone into the house.
She knew I found Leo.
And somehow the casualness of the message made everything worse.
Another text appeared before I could even breathe.
And Paula… don’t go snooping where you shouldn’t.
Cold spread slowly through my chest.
The emergency room suddenly felt too bright.
Too loud.
Machines beeped softly around me while nurses moved quickly between curtained rooms.
And somewhere behind me,
Leo slept beneath hospital blankets with an IV in his tiny arm.
Another message arrived.
Some things are better left as they are. For everyone’s sake.
That was the moment fear disappeared.
Not because the situation became less terrifying.
Because fury finally became stronger.
I looked toward Leo.
His cheeks looked pale against the white pillow.
Rex rested beneath one weak arm like a guard standing watch.
Five years old.
Five.
And someone left him locked inside a hot room like forgotten laundry.
The doctor returned carrying paperwork.
His eyes dropped immediately to my phone.
“You know who did this.”
Not a question.
I swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
“Then I need the truth now.”
My mouth felt dry suddenly.
Because saying it aloud would make everything real.
Not suspicion.
Not discomfort.
Not “maybe something is wrong.”
Real.
“My sister-in-law locked him in a room.”
The doctor went very still.
I continued before fear could stop me.
“She called me pretending she needed someone to feed her dog.”
I looked down at the messages again.
“But the dog was with her.”
The doctor’s jaw tightened visibly.
“How long was the child alone?”
“Since Friday.”
A long silence followed.
Then quietly:
“I’m contacting social services.”
I nodded immediately.
No hesitation now.
No protecting family reputation.
No waiting for explanations.
No.
The doctor stepped away toward the nurses’ station while I sat slowly beside Leo’s bed.
The hospital room smelled faintly like disinfectant and overheated air conditioning.
Outside the window, late evening sunlight burned orange across Scottsdale.
Everything out there still looked normal.
Traffic.
Restaurants.
People heading home from work.
Meanwhile inside this room,
a little boy slept like someone exhausted from surviving.
Leo stirred weakly beneath the blanket.
“Auntie?”
I leaned forward instantly.
“I’m here.”
His eyelids fluttered halfway open.
“Is Mom mad?”
The question hit me harder than any threat Chloe could ever send.
Because even now—
after everything—
his first instinct was still fear.
I brushed damp hair carefully away from his forehead.
“No.”
My throat tightened painfully.
“You don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
He looked unconvinced.
Children who grow up afraid always do.
A soft knock sounded against the doorframe.
A woman entered holding a blue folder against her chest.
Mid-forties.
Serious eyes.
No wasted movement.
“Paula Mendoza?”
I stood immediately.
“Yes.”
She introduced herself as Maricela from Child Protective Services.
The words alone made my stomach twist.
Not because she frightened me.
Because this situation had become real enough for government agencies now.
Maricela glanced toward Leo sleeping quietly in the bed.
Then lowered her voice.
“The doctor briefed me.”
A pause.
“I need to ask some questions.”
I nodded.
She sat across from me while opening the folder carefully.
“Has anyone expressed concern about the child before?”
Instantly,
memories started flashing through my head:
- Leo apologizing constantly
- asking permission to drink lemonade
- flinching when glasses broke
- how thin he always looked
- how carefully he watched Chloe’s face before speaking
Oh God.
How many signs had we all ignored because Chloe looked polished enough?
“I thought…”
My voice cracked slightly.
“I thought she was strict.”
Maricela’s expression softened sadly.
“A lot of abused children get described that way.”
The sentence hollowed something inside me.
My phone buzzed again.
Another message from Chloe.
Where are you?
Then immediately:
Paula answer me.
Then:
I know you went into the room.
Maricela looked up sharply.
“Do not delete anything.”
“I won’t.”
My phone started ringing before I could say anything else.
Chloe.
Her name glowed brightly across the screen.
For one second,
I almost ignored it.
Then Maricela glanced toward the hallway where a police officer had just arrived.
He lifted his phone slightly.
Recording.
My pulse jumped.
I answered.
“What do you want, Chloe?”
Gone was the sugary cheerful voice from earlier.
Now she sounded sharp.
Cold.
“What did you do?”
I stared at Leo sleeping beside me.
“I took him to the hospital.”
Silence.
Then somewhere through the phone—
a bark.
Buddy.
My blood went cold instantly.
And in the background,
I heard another voice.
Sophia.
PART 6 — “The Audio Recording”
The bark came through the phone again.
Loud.
Close.
Buddy.
My entire body went cold.
Because Buddy was supposed to be at the house.
Not beside Chloe.
Not wherever she currently was.
And then—
faintly in the background—
I heard Sophia’s voice.
Tiny.
Soft.
“Mom?”
Every hair on my arms stood up instantly.
“You said Buddy was home,” I whispered.
Chloe’s breathing shifted slightly.
Not panic.
Calculation.
“You’re overreacting.”
The police officer in the hallway looked up sharply from his recording app.
Maricela stopped writing.
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Where is Sophia?”
A tiny pause.
“At the resort with me.”
Her voice turned smooth again.
“Obviously.”
I looked toward Leo sleeping weakly in the hospital bed.
One child hidden away.
Another still alone with her.
Suddenly the room felt much too small.
“You left Leo locked in that room.”
Chloe sighed like I was exhausting her.
“Leo needed consequences.”
The words hit me like acid.
“He’s dehydrated.”
“He exaggerates.”
“He’s five years old!”
That finally sharpened her tone.
“And you’ve always been dramatic, Paula.”
A pause.
“You walk into one situation and suddenly think you’re a hero.”
My hands shook harder.
Behind me,
a heart monitor beeped steadily beside Leo’s bed.
Alive.
Thank God he was alive.
“You abandoned him.”
“No.”
Her voice stayed terrifyingly calm.
“I left water.”
The room went completely still.
Even the officer stopped moving.
I closed my eyes briefly because rage nearly made me dizzy.
“You locked a sick child in a room for two days.”
“I told him to think about what he did.”
“He got sick!”
“That trip cost thousands of dollars.”
Silence exploded through the hospital room.
Because somehow—
unbelievably—
she sounded genuinely offended.
Like Leo ruining her vacation mattered more than what she’d done to him.
Maricela slowly closed the blue folder in her lap.
The officer’s expression darkened visibly.
And Chloe just kept talking.
“That boy thinks every little stomachache means the world should stop for him.”
I stared through the hospital window toward the burning Arizona sunset outside.
Then quietly:
“You were testing me.”
Silence.
Tiny.
But real.
“You wanted to know if I’d go inside the house.”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
My voice shook now.
“If I hadn’t found him, you were going to blame me somehow.”
Nothing.
Not denial.
Nothing.
That terrified me more than screaming would have.
Then finally Chloe laughed softly.
Cold laugh.
Tiny laugh.
“You always think you’re smarter than you are.”
My stomach twisted violently.
Because people only say things like that when they already built backup plans.
I suddenly remembered:
- the hidden key
- the texts
- her making sure I entered the house
- Richard unreachable in Dallas
- witnesses surrounding her at a luxury resort
Oh my God.
She really had planned this.
I looked toward Leo again.
His tiny hand still clutched Rex even while sleeping.
And suddenly I realized something horrifying:
if I had simply dropped off the dog food and left—
nobody might have checked that room until it was too late.
“Aunt Paula?”
I spun instantly.
Leo’s eyes were barely open.
Fever-bright.
Confused.
“I’m here.”
He swallowed weakly.
“Did I make Mom really mad?”
The question shattered the room.
Maricela looked away immediately.
The officer’s jaw tightened.
And something inside me hardened permanently.
“No.”
I moved beside the bed and took his tiny hand carefully.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His fingers curled weakly around mine.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A new message.
From Elena.
My friend at Golden Lake Resort.
One audio file attached.
Caption:
Pau… you need to hear this right now.
My pulse jumped instantly.
I pressed play.
Pool music crackled softly through the speaker.
Glasses clinking.
People laughing.
Then Chloe’s voice drifted through clearly.
Calm.
Relaxed.
Amused.
“Leo needed to learn.”
“That boy thinks just because he gets sick everyone’s supposed to come running.”
The room froze.
Every single person listening stopped breathing.
Chloe laughed lightly in the recording.
“I left him water. People are too sensitive.”
“And honestly? If Paula goes into the house and doesn’t find him, that’s not really my problem anymore.”
The blood drained from my face.
Beside me,
Maricela slowly stood up.
The police officer took out a second phone immediately.
And suddenly I understood something with terrifying clarity:
there was no saving Chloe anymore………………………….
