Chapter 2
For several seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
The photograph lying beneath my daughter's bed showed me leaving work.
I recognized my gray cardigan.
My red lunch bag.
Even the small coffee stain near my sleeve.
Someone had been watching me.
And somehow, my thirteen-year-old daughter had been dragged into it.
"Usually around six," Maya whispered.
The man made an impatient sound.
"Usually isn't good enough."
"Sometimes she stays late."
"Then you'll text me when she's leaving."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Every part of me wanted to crawl out and scream.
But I couldn't see the man's face.
I didn't know whether he was armed.
And Maya was standing only a few feet away.
One wrong move could put her in danger.
"Please," she whispered. "I've done everything you asked."
"Not everything."
I heard paper rustling.
"There's one more thing."
"What?"
"Your mother's filing cabinet. The locked one in her bedroom."
My blood ran cold.
That cabinet contained our insurance documents, divorce papers, tax records, and a sealed envelope from my attorney.
Why would anyone want those?
"I told you," Maya said. "I don't know where she keeps the key."
"Then find it."
"I can't."
His boots moved closer to her sneakers.
"You can."
I heard Maya begin crying.
"Please don't hurt him."
Him?
My mind raced.
Who was she talking about?
The man crouched.
One black boot bent at the ankle.
I saw the edge of his gray trousers.
Then his voice softened in a way that made me even more frightened.
"Maya, we had an agreement."
"I know."
"You help me, and your little friend stays out of trouble."
"I've helped you for weeks."
"Then don't disappoint me now."
A phone vibrated.
The man answered.
"Yeah?"
Silence.
Then:
"No, she doesn't know anything."
My hands were trembling so badly I pressed them against the floor.
He listened again.
"Tell Derek we've got until Monday."
Derek.
My ex-husband.
I nearly made a sound.
The man continued.
"The kid's cooperating. I'll handle the papers."
He ended the call.
I stared into the darkness.
My daughter's father was involved.
The man I'd divorced after discovering he'd secretly drained our savings.
The man who'd spent two years blaming me for ruining his life.
The man who repeatedly complained about child support.
Had he sent someone to our house?
"Maya," the stranger said, "go check your mother's bedroom."
"Now?"
"Now."
She walked away.
The man remained.
I watched his boots shift toward her dresser.
A drawer opened.
Then another.
He was searching her room.
I slowly reached into my pocket.
My phone was there.
But there wasn't enough room to lift it safely.
I couldn't risk the screen lighting up.
Then I heard something scrape against the floor.
The man had moved beside the bed.
His boot stopped inches from my face.
I held my breath.
A hand reached down.
For one terrible moment, I thought he had seen me.
Instead, he picked up the photograph.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Then Maya returned.
"I couldn't find the key."
"Did you check the drawer beside her bed?"
"Yes."
"Her purse?"
"She took it."
He cursed quietly.
"Fine. We'll try again tomorrow."
"No," Maya said suddenly.
The room went silent.
"What did you say?"
"I said no."
My heart broke at the fear in her voice.
"I'm not doing this anymore."
The man laughed.
"You think you can just walk away?"
"I'm tired."
"That's unfortunate."
I heard fabric rustle.
Then he said:
"Maybe I should send your mother the video."
Maya gasped.
"Please don't."
"Then stop arguing."
He walked toward the door.
"Same time tomorrow."
The front door closed less than a minute later.
I waited.
Maya stood motionless.
Then she sank onto her bed.
The mattress dipped above my head.
And my daughter began sobbing.
Not the frustrated crying of a teenager having a bad day.
These were desperate, broken sobs.
The kind that come from someone who has been frightened for too long.
I couldn't stay hidden anymore.
"Maya," I whispered.
She went completely still.
"Sweetheart, it's Mom."
She slid off the mattress.
When she saw me crawling out from beneath the bed, her face turned white.
"Mom?"
I stood slowly.
"It's okay."
She backed toward the wall.
"No."
"Maya—"
"No, no, no!"
She covered her mouth.
"He said you couldn't find out!"
I stepped closer.
"Nobody is going to hurt you."
"You don't understand!"
"Then help me understand."
Her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the floor.
She clung to my shirt, sobbing.
"I'm sorry, Mommy."
I held her against me.
"It's okay, baby."
"I didn't want to do it."
"I know."
"He made me."
I stroked her hair.
"Who is he?"
She shook her head.
"Please don't make me say."
I gently lifted her chin.
"Maya, listen carefully. Whatever happened, you are not in trouble."
Her eyes searched mine.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
She swallowed.
"His name is Mr. Collins."
I frowned.
"Who is Mr. Collins?"
"He works at school."
My stomach dropped.
"What does he do?"
"He's the attendance coordinator."
The school employee responsible for recording absences.
Suddenly, the attendance records made sense.
"He marks me present," Maya whispered. "Even when I leave."
I felt physically sick.
"How long?"
"Five weeks."
Five weeks.
My daughter had been disappearing from school for five weeks.
And the person responsible for attendance had helped her.
"Why?"
She looked toward the window.
"Because of Ethan."
"Who's Ethan?"
"My friend."
I remembered the name.
Ethan Brooks.
A quiet boy from her science class.
His mother had died the previous year.
"Mr. Collins said Ethan stole something from the school."
"What?"
"A tablet."
Maya wiped her cheeks.
"He showed me a video. It looked like Ethan taking it from a classroom."
"And?"
"He said Ethan would be expelled and sent away unless I helped him."
My chest tightened.
"Sent away where?"
"His dad's been sick. Ethan's staying with his aunt. Mr. Collins said social services would take him."
I held Maya's shoulders.
"Sweetheart, adults can't just make those decisions."
"I didn't know!"
She started crying again.
"He said he had proof."
I kissed her forehead.
"You were trying to protect your friend."
She nodded.
"But why would he want our documents?"
Maya hesitated.
Then she whispered:
"Because Dad asked him to get them."
I froze.
"Your father?"
She nodded.
"Mr. Collins told me Dad would finally stop bothering us if I helped."
I stood there, unable to speak.
Then Maya reached beneath her pillow.
She pulled out a small black notebook.
"I wrote everything down."
I stared at her.
"Everything?"
"Dates. Times. Things he said."
She opened it.
Page after page contained careful handwriting.
At the bottom of the final page was one sentence.
Mr. Collins said they need Mom's signature before Monday.
I looked at Maya.
"Whose signature?"
She swallowed.
"Yours."
May you like
Then she added:
"Mom, I think Dad is planning to take our house."
