Chapter 132
Chapter 132:
“Good. Make sure she is never found.” The voice that crackled through the speaker was tinny with distance, but Elia recognized it instantly — the high, sharp pitch of it. The voice of the lady who had thrown the glass. The lady who had aimed the car at Mommy.
Charla.
Elia understood, with a child’s sudden and terrible clarity, that this was not about money. It was about hate.
Gretchen hung up and glanced at Elia in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were flat and cold.
“Don’t worry, kid. It’ll be quick.” She lit a cigarette. Smoke began to fill the cabin.
Elia looked around the van. She was Cailin Morton’s daughter. She was Hilliard Holloway’s daughter. She did not give up.
Her eyes found a loose screw on the metal frame of the floor-bolted seat. It was sharp and flecked with rust.
She shifted carefully backward and began working the zip tie against the edge of it.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
𝖱ea𝖽 𝘧r𝘰m 𝘺𝘰𝘂𝗋 p𝗁𝗈𝗇е оո
In the hospital, Cailin tore the IV needle from her arm.
Blood bloomed across the white floor. She didn’t feel it. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she grabbed the bed rail, white-knuckled, fighting to stay upright. The fever was a fire behind her eyes, but the cold running through her veins was fiercer than any fever. The world narrowed to a gray tunnel. Every step was a deliberate, agonizing act of will against the burning in her lungs. She wasn’t running — she was lurching, stumbling, driven forward by a maternal fury that was consuming her from the inside out.
She burst through the room door barefoot, her hospital gown whipping around her legs, and ignored the nurses calling after her. She hit the elevator button with her palm.
She was going to find her daughter.
Or she was going to burn the city down trying.
Cailin burst into the apartment looking like a revenant — skin translucent, sweat matting her hair to her forehead, her hospital gown still clinging to her body.
Ashely was on the sofa with Aron and Davy pressed against her on either side. Two police officers stood in the living room, their expressions professional but strained.
“Ma’am, we’ve issued a BOLO and are checking traffic cameras,” the older officer said, his tone measured but firm. “The vehicle had stolen plates and the woman wore a mask. The kidnapper was a professional — they wiped the school’s external camera footage for the ten minutes surrounding the abduction. We’re working on it, but it takes time p>
“She is five years old! Issue an Amber Alert!” Cailin’s voice was raw, stripped bare. “My sons saw the whole thing p>
“We need a confirmed license plate or a clear suspect description before we can trigger a statewide alert,” the officer explained carefully. “Right now we don’t have enough to justify it without causing a city-wide panic. We are doing everything we can p>
“Get out.” Cailin pointed to the door. Her whole body was trembling, but her finger was perfectly steady. “If you can’t find her right now, get out p>
“Ma’am, we’re on your side p>
“Get out p>
The officers exchanged a look, left their contact information, and filed out quietly. The door clicked shut.
Cailin locked it and turned to the boys.