I scrambled to my feet, my knees slipping in the mud. I grabbed the empty gas can—I couldn’t leave a single piece of physical evidence behind. I ran back toward my truck, my lungs burning with the exertion, leaving the beautiful, historic house standing. Leaving the monsters completely safe in their den.
I threw the truck in reverse and tore out of the service road, driving away, tears blurring my vision. I hadn’t burned their pristine world down. Not tonight. Not with fire.
But as I connected my phone to the Bluetooth and dialed the number of the most ruthless civil rights lawyer in the state, I realized something important. Fire is fast. But there are much slower, much more agonizing ways to completely destroy a human life.
And as Chloe’s nurse walked into her room, she handed my daughter a whiteboard.
The reunion in the ICU was incredibly quiet, but it was the loudest moment of my life. Chloe couldn’t speak much—her jaw had been fractured in two places and was wired shut—but her eyes, miraculously clear and cognizant, locked instantly onto mine the second I walked into the room. I held her hand, crying openly, pressing my forehead against hers, promising her over and over that she was safe, that the baby was safe, and that I would never leave her side.
An hour later, Detective Davis, the officer from the roadside, entered the room softly. He held his hat in his hands.
“Mrs. Hayes,” the Detective said respectfully. “The doctor says she’s lucid enough to communicate?”
I looked down at Chloe. She looked so incredibly tired, but beneath the exhaustion, I saw a spark of the girl I had raised. A girl who had finally had enough. “Can you tell him, baby? Can you tell him exactly what happened?”
