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Back at dispatch, Claire heard something on the phone. A floorboard. A shift in air. The tiny scrape of movement outside a bedroom door. Emily must have heard it too, because her breathing changed instantly, turning shallow and frantic.
“He’s coming upstairs,” Emily whispered.
Claire sat straighter. “Emily, I need you to put the phone down somewhere he won’t see it, but stay near it if you can. Do not say my name. Do you understand?”
A tiny, trembling “Okay.”
Then fabric rustled. The line went muffled.
Claire kept listening.
The world shrank to static, footsteps, and her own pulse hammering in her ears.
Maria swung the patrol car onto Maplewood Drive hard enough to jolt both officers forward. They cut the siren a house early and rolled the last few yards under flashing lights. The place looked almost offensively peaceful. White fence. Porch planter. Wind chime. A tricycle on its side near the bushes. If you had driven by at noon, you might have thought it belonged in a family cereal commercial.
Daniel and Maria moved to the front door.
Maria knocked first, hard and official. “Springfield Police Department.”
No answer.
Daniel knocked louder. “Open the door.”
A porch light clicked on inside. Footsteps approached. The door opened to reveal a man in his early forties wearing jeans and a gray thermal shirt. He looked mildly annoyed, not alarmed. His face was composed the way some men practiced being composed, like calm itself was part of the costume.
“Can I help you, officers?”
Daniel kept his eyes on the man’s hands. “We received a 911 call from this address.”
The man gave a short laugh that died too quickly. “Then somebody made a mistake.”
“A child called,” Maria said.
Something passed over the man’s face. It was there and gone in less than a second, but trained eyes lived for that second. He adjusted his posture almost immediately.
“My daughter’s asleep.”
That was when they heard it.
A soft, broken sound from the staircase.