“She’s my daughter,” he growled, swinging back around and striding away.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911, because she didn’t dare take a chance that he was lying.
Maybe he sensed what she was doing.
Maybe he just glanced back to make certain she was no longer following. One way or another, he looked back and saw her with the phone pressed to her ear.
“Hang up,” he said coldly.
“Put the girl down,” she countered, the operator’s voice ringing in her ear.
The man lunged, the child held in one arm, his free arm grabbing for the phone. He slapped it from Tessa’s hand, then shoved her so hard she fell backward. She scrambled after the phone, desperate to give her location. He kicked it across the pavement, then sprinted to the Jeep.
Tessa screamed for help as she followed. He reached the Jeep seconds ahead of her, yanking open the back door and tossing the girl inside. He would have slammed the door closed, but Tessa grabbed his arm and pulled him away as she tried to get to the child.
She was tugging the little girl out of the Jeep when his arm snaked around her throat. She tried to scream again, but his grip was too tight and no sound would come. She had no choice but to release the girl, to claw at his arm and shove backward into his thin frame. They tumbled to the ground, his curses ringing in her ears.
She saw the barrel of the gun seconds before it was jabbed into her temple. “Get up,” he ordered.
She did as she was told. Not because she was afraid to die, but because she was afraid of what would happen to the girl if he drove off alone with her.
“Get in the Jeep,” he demanded.
She hesitated, desperate to find a way out of the situation. One that would save her and the little girl.
“I said, get in,” he nearly screamed, slamming the barrel of the gun into the side of her head.
She saw stars, tasted blood, felt herself falling.
She knew he’d lifted her, was shoving her into the Jeep. She thought she heard someone shouting for them to stop, thought she heard the faint sound of sirens. Then the door slammed shut, and she heard nothing but the rev of the Jeep’s engine as the man sped away.
* * *
Special Agent Henry Miller sprinted across the road, his focus on the Jeep that was speeding toward the intersection at the end of the street. His five-year-old daughter Everly was inside the vehicle. He was certain of that. He’d heard a woman screaming for help as he was heading down his in-laws’ hall to check on his daughters. The screams had been faint but audible through the nineteenth-century windows.
He’d run to the girls’ room and found the window open, frigid air wafting in. Aria had been sleeping, huddled beneath her blankets. Everly was gone.
He’d been in the house when she’d been taken.
He hadn’t heard anything earlier. Just the settling of old boards and joists as he carried his overnight bag into the guest room and unpacked for the weekend. His in-laws had been in bed when he’d arrived, the girls tucked in and sleeping. The quiet was comforting, and the house had seemed as much like home as any ever had. Like every other parent who had ever woken to find a child missing, he had had no clue that anything was amiss.
Until he’d heard the scream.
“Everly!” he shouted, his heart thundering, his brain screaming that this had to be a nightmare.
There was no way his daughter could have been taken from her room, carried out a window that had been jimmied open and tossed into a Jeep that was quickly driving away.
But he’d seen the window, the cut screen, the jimmied lock.
He spun on his heels, sprinting back to his in-laws’ house and the car he’d parked in the driveway less than an hour ago. The keys were in the pocket of his jacket, and that was still in the house. He reached the porch at a dead run, then glanced over his shoulder to see which direction the Jeep turned at the end of the road. Left toward Commercial Street. From there, it would be an easy drive out of town.
The front door flew open, and his mother-in-law, Rachelle, stepped outside, her face stark white. “Where’s Everly?” she cried.
“I need my jacket,” he responded, the words as hard and crisp as the winter air.
“Right here.” His father-in-law, Brett, shoved past Rachelle, thrusting the jacket into his hands.