PART 2 — The Bedroom Upstairs
Hannah Pierce had answered enough emergency calls to know that fear had many voices.
Some people screamed. Some cursed. Some became strangely calm, speaking in a flat tone as though their mind had stepped outside the body and was reporting from across the room s.
Children were different.
Children told the truth sideways.
They said the monster was in the closet when they meant a person. They said their stomach hurt when they meant they had been hit. They said the dog was sleeping when the dog was dead.
And now, on Hannah’s headset, seven-year-old Avery was whispering about a snake.
“There isn’t a lock anymore,” the little girl had said.
Hannah’s fingers moved quickly over the keyboard.
The patrol units were four minutes out.
Four minutes could be nothing.
Four minutes could be forever.
“Avery,” Hannah said, keeping her voice as soft as a blanket, “you’re doing very well. I need you to tell me something. Is your daddy downstairs?”
There was a long pause.
Then Avery whispered, “He’s in the hallway.”
Hannah stopped breathing for half a second.
On the other side of the line, there was a faint sound.
A slow scrape.
Not footsteps exactly.
More like something being dragged carefully across old wood.
“Avery,” Hannah said, “where are you hiding?”
“In my bed.”
“Under the blankets?”
“Yes.”
“Is the phone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Keep it close to your face, but don’t talk unless I ask you something. Can you do that?”
A tiny sniffle.
“Yes.”
Hannah turned and signaled sharply to the floor supervisor. She pointed at the active call, then at the officers’ location s.
The supervisor leaned in, read the notes, and his expression changed.
Child caller. Possible domestic danger. Adult male in hallway. No lock on bedroom door.
Hannah heard another sound through the headset.
A soft knock.
One time.
Then two.
Then the doorknob turned.
Avery made a tiny whimper and clamped it down quickly, but Hannah heard it. Hannah felt it in her chest.
