Chapter 1 - What Lies Beneath the Water
The whisper hanging in the hot, stagnant afternoon air felt colder than ice against my neck.
“Daddy... please don’t look at the pool.”
I froze on the lawn, Emily’s entire weight shaking in my arms. Her small fingers dug through my torn shirt, her nails biting into my skin with a terrified, instinctual grip. Above us, on the second floor of the house, the beige curtain in the master bedroom twitched once. A shadow receded behind the dirty glass—a tall, broad silhouette that could only belong to Jason.
He was inside. He had been inside the whole time, watching me break the padlock, watching me pull my starved, bruised daughter out of a rusty cage like an animal.
"Michael!" Mrs. Harris’s cracked voice called out from the other side of the fence. Her knuckles were still white around her rosary, her eyes wide with terror. "Get her out of there! He’s in the house! I saw him go upstairs ten minutes ago!"
"I’ve got her, Mrs. Harris," I rasped, my throat raw. "Call 911! Tell them a child was held captive! Tell them to send every unit they have!"
I didn't waste another second looking at the dark, swollen contractor bags resting like drowned corpses at the bottom of the green pool water. Every instinct in my body roared at me to drop Emily, march through those glass patio doors, and tear Jason apart with my bare hands. But looking at my daughter’s split lip, her sunken cheeks, and the absolute terror in her eyes, I knew my anger was a luxury we couldn't afford. She needed to be safe first.
I shifted Emily’s weight, threw my leg over the low wooden fence, and hoisted us both into Mrs. Harris’s side yard. My hands were slick with sweat and my own blood from the rusted nail that had torn my palm earlier, but I didn't feel a thing.
"In the house, quickly," Mrs. Harris sobbed, pushing her side door open. "I locked my doors, but the back glass is thin."
We rushed into her small, air-conditioned kitchen. The smell of old lemon tea and stale bread hit my nose as I gently set Emily down on a vinyl chair. The moment her feet touched the floor, her knees buckled. I caught her under her arms, lifting her onto my lap as I sat down beside her.
"Emily, baby, look at me," I pleaded, brushing the matted, filthy strands of dark hair away from her face. "Look at Daddy. You’re safe now. Mrs. Harris’s house is locked. The police are coming."
She didn't look at my face. Her eyes remained wide, fixed on the window that faced her mother’s backyard. She was hyperventilating, short, shallow gasps hitching in her tiny chest.
"The bags, Daddy," she whimpered, her voice barely a thread. "He... he made me watch."
A wave of pure nausea washed over me. I grabbed her small, trembling hands, holding them tightly against my chest. "Made you watch what, sweetie? What was in those bags?"
"Mommy’s stuff," Emily whispered, a single, heavy tear cutting a clean track through the dirt on her cheek. "He... he packed Mommy’s clothes. Her shoes. Her makeup. He put rocks in the bags with them. He said... he said Mommy went on a trip to California and wasn't coming back."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Sarah went to California?"
"No," Emily said, her voice dropping so low I had to lean my ear against her lips to hear her over the hum of Mrs. Harris’s refrigerator. "Mommy never left the house, Daddy. She was in the bedroom on Friday night. She was crying. Jason was yelling at her about money... about the house papers. Then... then there was a loud bang. Like something heavy falling down the stairs."
The room went entirely motionless. Mrs. Harris dropped her telephone onto the linoleum counter, the dial tone buzzing faintly in the quiet kitchen.
"Emily," I whispered, every drop of blood draining from my face. "Where is Mommy?"
Emily’s lower lip quivered violently. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead against my collarbone, her small frame wracked by a sudden, silent sob.
"Under the stairs," she sobbed softly. "He put the big deep freezer in front of the pantry door under the stairs on Saturday morning. He told me if I made a noise... if I screamed for Mrs. Harris... he would put me in the pool with Mommy’s clothes."
Before I could process the horror of what my ten-year-old daughter had just uttered, the sound of glass shattering echoed from next door.
CRASH.
Mrs. Harris screamed, clapping her hands over her mouth.
Through her kitchen window, we saw the back sliding glass door of Sarah’s house explode outward. Jason stepped out onto the concrete patio. He was wearing a heavy grey work jacket despite the stifling heat, a dark duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. In his right hand, he held a long, silver crowbar, its tip dripping with dark grease.
He didn't look around. He didn't run. He walked with a slow, terrifying deliberation straight toward the side fence separating the properties.
"Michael," Mrs. Harris whimpered, backing away toward her living room. "He’s coming."
I stood up, pulling Emily behind me, my eyes sweeping Mrs. Harris’s kitchen for anything I could use as a weapon. On the counter sat a heavy wooden butcher block holding five stainless-steel chef knives. I grabbed the largest one, my blood-stained fingers wrapping tightly around the black plastic handle.
"Mrs. Harris, take Emily into the bathroom," I ordered, my voice turning to stone. "Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone except the police."
"Daddy, no!" Emily shrieked, grabbing the hem of my jeans. "Don't go near him! He’s strong! He hurt Mommy!"
"I’m not going anywhere, sweetie," I said, kneeling down quickly to kiss her forehead, tasting the salt of her tears and the grime of that horrific cage. "I’m staying right here. Nobody is ever going to hurt you again. I swear it on my life."
May you like
I pushed her gently toward Mrs. Harris, who grabbed Emily’s hand and sprinted down the narrow hallway toward the back bathroom. The heavy oak door slammed shut, followed by the metallic click of a deadbolt sliding into place.
I turned back to the kitchen door just as the brass doorknob began to turn.
