Chapter 2 - THE SISTER I THOUGHT WAS GONEFor eleven years, Rachel Mercer had existed in my life as a collection of unanswered questions.
Thirty seconds from convincing myself that the screaming child on the porch belonged to somebody else.
Thirty seconds from making the worst decision of my life.
The temperature outside was 104 degrees.
Heat shimmered above the cracked pavement, turning the quiet suburban street into something that looked underwater. My dashboard air conditioner was barely keeping up, and all I wanted was to get home, take off my sweat-soaked work shirt, and stand beneath a cold shower.
Then I saw her.
A little girl.
Barefoot.
Maybe three years old.
She was standing behind the white wooden railing of a front porch, pounding both fists against the screen door.
“Mommy!”
I slowed.
“Mommy, wake up!”
My foot hovered over the brake.
The house was an aging two-story Craftsman with peeling blue paint and yellow grass curling beneath the afternoon sun. There were no cars in the driveway.
No adults outside.
No neighbors watering lawns.
Just that tiny girl.
“Mommy!”
My name is Daniel Mercer. I was thirty-seven at the time, divorced, exhausted, and working six days a week repairing commercial air-conditioning systems around Columbus, Ohio.
I had learned to mind my own business.
Maybe too well.
I rolled past the driveway.
The girl disappeared behind me.
I told myself somebody was probably inside.
Maybe her mother was showering.
Maybe she had been told she couldn't go outside.
Maybe she was throwing a tantrum.
Then something made me look into my rearview mirror.
She wasn't throwing a tantrum.
She was staring directly at my truck.
Her little face was bright red.
Her blond hair was soaked against her forehead.
And both hands were wrapped around the porch railing as if she were trying to keep herself standing.
I hit the brakes.
My truck stopped twenty yards past the house.
When I got out, the heat hit me like an open oven.
“Hey, sweetheart!”
Her head snapped toward me.
“Please!”
That single word changed everything.
I ran toward her.
“Where's your mom?”
“Inside.”
“Can you open the door?”
She shook her head violently.
“Locked.”
I climbed the porch stairs.
Up close, she looked worse.
Her lips were dry.
Her cheeks were flushed.
There was dried blood beneath one knee.
“What’s your name?”
“Maisie.”
“Okay, Maisie. I'm Daniel.”
She pointed through the screen.
“Mommy fell.”
My stomach tightened.
I tried the screen door.
Unlocked.
Behind it was a heavy wooden front door.
I turned the knob.
Nothing.
Deadbolt.
“Mommy locked it?”
“No.”
Maisie's eyes filled with tears.
“Bad man.”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“What bad man?”
She pointed toward the door.
That was when I noticed the mark beside the deadbolt.
At first I thought somebody had spilled paint.
Then I leaned closer.
Four dark streaks stretched across the white doorframe.
A palm.
Four fingers.
A bloody handprint.
Not Maisie's.
An adult's.
I stepped backward.
“Maisie, when did you come outside?”
“Mommy put me out.”
“Why?”
Her lower lip trembled.
“She said run.”
The words barely left her mouth when something crashed inside the house.
Not a plate.
Not furniture shifting.
Something heavy.
A body.
Maisie screamed.
I grabbed her instinctively.
Then I heard a man's voice from somewhere inside.
Low.
Furious.
“You should've stayed down.”
My blood turned cold.
Maisie buried her face against my chest.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed 911.
Before the dispatcher answered, another sound came through the door.
A woman.
Weak.
Almost impossible to hear.
“Maisie…”
The little girl lifted her head.
“Mommy!”
She began kicking against me.
I held her tighter.
“No. You stay with me.”
The dispatcher answered.
“911, what's your emergency?”
“There’s a woman being attacked inside 418 Elm Street. A three-year-old is outside. Send police and an ambulance now.”
Then the door handle moved.
Once.
Twice.
Somebody inside was unlocking it.
I backed down the steps with Maisie in my arms.
The deadbolt turned.
Click.
The front door opened six inches.
A man's face appeared through the darkness.
Sweat running down his temples.
Blood splattered across the collar of his gray shirt.
He looked at me.
Then at Maisie.
His expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
“Give me my daughter.”
Maisie screamed so violently that the sound seemed to tear through the entire street.
“No!”
She clawed at my shirt.
“That’s not Daddy!”
And behind the man, somewhere in that dark house, a woman screamed my name.
“DANIEL!”
I nearly dropped the phone.
Because I recognized the voice.
A voice I hadn't heard in almost eleven years.
May you like
The voice of my younger sister.
Rachel.
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