Chapter 3: The Other One
I looked at Danny for a moment.
He was maybe twelve.
Thin.
The kind of thin that isn't about appetite.
"The other one," I repeated.
"What does that mean?"
He glanced at the front door again.
Old habit, I could tell.
Checking without thinking.
"She made two," he said.
"One for you.
One she kept."
"Danny, where is she right now?"
"Inside.
She didn't come down this morning." He picked at a thread on his sleeve.
"She does that sometimes.
After."
I sat down on the step beside him.
Not too close.
I've learned that with kids who are scared — you don't crowd them.
"After what, Danny?"
He didn't answer right away.
A car went past on the street.
He watched it until it was gone.
"He doesn't hit her," he said finally.
"He's too smart for that."
The way he said it — *too smart* — told me someone had used those exact words before.
Probably more than once.
Probably to explain why nothing could be done.
"What does he do?" I asked.
Danny looked at his hands.
"Takes things.
Her phone.
Her keys.
Her wallet.
Says he's keeping them safe." He paused.
"Last week he cancelled her doctor's appointment.
Said she didn't need to go.
She'd been waiting three months for that appointment."
I kept my voice even.
"Does she have family she can call?"
"Her sister.
But he told her the sister was toxic.
Said she was trying to break up the family." He finally looked at me.
"Her sister sends birthday cards every year.
He throws them away before Mom can see them.
I found one once, in the recycling.
I didn't tell him."
I thought about the note.
*He'll know.* Not a guess.
A certainty built from years of watching him know things he shouldn't.
"Danny, you said she kept a second pie.
Where is it?"
He stood up and brushed off his jeans.
"In her closet.
Behind her winter boots." He said it like a fact, not a secret.
Like he'd been holding it ready.
"She said if she ever couldn't get to it herself, I should bring it to you."
I stood up too.
"Is she okay right now?
Does she need a doctor?"
"She said she's okay." He looked at the door again.
"But she also said that last time."
I put my hand in my pocket so he wouldn't see it curl into a fist.
"Can you get the pie without him knowing?"
"He's at work until six."
"Then go get it," I said.
"Bring it to my back door.
Don't knock — just leave it on the mat and text me.
Do you have a phone?"
"A school one.
He doesn't know the number."
Of course he didn't.
She'd made sure of that.
"Okay," I said.
"Go."
He went inside without another word.
I walked back to my house, sat down at my kitchen table, and stared at the wall.
I've worked crisis lines for eleven years.
I know the profile.
I know how it builds — slowly, quietly, until the person inside it can't remember what normal felt like.
I know how hard it is to leave.
I know what happens when someone tries and fails.
What I didn't know yet was what was in that second pie.
My phone buzzed at 10:14.
*On your mat.*
I went to the back door.
The pie was there, same foil wrapping, same careful edges folded down.
I carried it inside and set it on the counter.
I didn't slice it this time.
I peeled the foil back slowly from one edge and lifted the top crust with a butter knife.
There were two things inside.
A folded note, like the first.
And underneath it, a small USB drive in a zip-lock sandwich bag, sealed tight.
I unfolded the note first.
The handwriting was the same.
But the words were different.
*"If you're reading this, I couldn't get out on my own.
The drive has everything.
Bank records.
Recordings.
Three years of it.
His name is Garrett Hollis.
He's not who he says he is.
Please — don't let him take Danny."*
I read the name again.
Garrett Hollis.
I set the note down and picked up the USB drive.
It was small.
Lighter than it should have been for what it apparently held.
Three years of it.
I looked out the window at their house.
Quiet.
May you like
Curtains drawn on the upper floor.
Then I went to my laptop.
