Chapter 6 - HUNTED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT
I didn't turn on the porch lights. I didn't yell. I stepped back from the window, pulled my cell phone from my pocket, and dialed Detective Lin’s direct dispatch number while simultaneously sliding open the bottom drawer of my roll-top desk.
Inside sat my father’s .38 caliber service revolver, resting on an oiled rag. I hadn't touched it since Aaron died. I checked the cylinder—six rounds, lead-nosed, heavy and cold.
"Lin," the detective answered on the second ring.
"She’s outside my house," I whispered. "Dark grey hatchback, idling at the corner of Maple and Tenth. She’s watching the front windows."
"Do not engage, Paul," Lin ordered, her voice instantly sharp with professional urgency. "I have two marked units four blocks away on Elmwood. Keep the children down and stay away from the glass."
Before I could reply, the harsh screech of tires tore through the quiet evening air.
I looked through the curtains. The hatchback had thrown itself into reverse, rubber burning against the wet asphalt, before whipping around in a violent J-turn. A county sheriff cruiser had just rounded the corner of Maple, its high-beam takedown lights washing the street in brilliant white.
The hatchback didn't stop. It accelerated straight toward the cruiser, jumped the curb onto the neighbors’ lawn, tore through a line of cedar shrubs, and roared off down Tenth Avenue into the gathering sleet storm.
"She ran," I told the phone. "She took Tenth toward the turnpike."
"Units are pursuing," Lin replied, the distant shriek of sirens already bleeding through her end of the call. "Stay where you are."
Ten minutes later, the street outside was bathed in flashing red and blue strobes. Three police cruisers and an unmarked Crown Victoria were parked diagonally across my lawn.
I walked out onto the porch, leaving Drew and Lily safely tucked inside with a uniformed officer sitting at the kitchen table. Detective Henderson met me at the base of the porch steps, rain dripping from the brim of his fedora.
"Did they get her?" I demanded.
Henderson shook his head, spitting a piece of chewing tobacco onto the grass. "She ditched the car at the gravel quarry near Route 9. The vehicle was stolen from a church parking lot in Allentown yesterday morning. She hopped the chain-link fence and vanished into the marshland. We’ve got K-9 units in the brush right now, but the sleet is washing out the scent trails."
"She was taking pictures of my living room, Henderson!" I yelled, the terror and rage boiling over. "She was twenty yards from my front door!"
"We found what she left in the car," Lin said, appearing from behind a cruiser carrying a clear plastic evidence container.
Inside the bag was a spiral-bound notebook.
Lin held it open under the cruiser’s spotlight. On the lined pages were handwritten schedules—meticulous, obsessive chronologies of my daily movements.
7:15 AM: Paul leaves for hardware yard.8:30 AM: Child advocate vehicle arrives.11:45 AM: Pediatric therapy delivery.3:15 PM: Children sit on living room rug.9:00 PM: Rear porch floodlight cycles off.
Below the schedule was a clipped photograph of Drew taken through my kitchen window two days ago. Across his forehead, written in thick, black permanent marker, was a single sentence:
A MOTHER’S PROPERTY CANNOT BE STOLEN.
"She isn't running away," I said, the cold truth settling over me like suffocating ash. "She’s not trying to leave the country. She’s trying to finish this."
"She doesn't have the resources to stay hidden much longer," Lin said, though her eyes betrayed her uncertainty. "We froze the last of Vance’s offshore accounts this afternoon. Her credit cards are flagged. She is operating on cash and desperation."
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"Desperation makes people sloppy," Henderson added.
"No," I countered, looking back at the warm, lit windows of my house where my brother’s broken children were hiding behind a pantry wall. "Desperation makes people fearless. If she knows she can’t have them back, she won't leave them alive to testify against her."
