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Seriously—a wolf? Where the fuck has a kidnapper found a baby wolf? One of this size probably has its own mother that will be missing it.
My thoughts are racing, my mind unable to truly focus on what is important, and it takes me nipping my arms to pull me out of the anxiety spiral. I can’t be drawn into the unstable current that is my emotions again. The longer I mess around, the further away that fucker can get with my baby.
I run through to the kitchen to grab my phone, my footsteps even heavier than normal, and immediately dial for the police. My hands are shaking, my eyes blurry, but the unmistakable nine is easy to click. I ignore the mild cramping in my stomach that reminds me that Phoebe is only five days old and instead try to focus on blocking out my fears. She can’t be far. It’s not been that long.
Right?
The phone rings three times before there’s a soft click, followed by a professional voice. “Hello, this is Amanda at the dispatch team. Do you require an ambulance, the police, or the fire brigade?”
“The police. I need the police,” I cry softly, clutching the phone desperately at my ear. My words are hurried, panicked, even. No matter how calm I try to be, I can’t ignore my worry. “She’s gone. Someone has taken my daughter.”
The tone of the lady immediately changes from distantly professional to alert. “How old is your daughter, miss?”
“Five days old,” I cry, and I hear her sharp inhale of breath as her fingers rapidly type on a keyboard. I hope she’s telling everyone and their mother that there’s a missing child. I need my daughter found. Now. “She’s gone. She was in her crib in the living room, I was in the kitchen for a second, and now… she’s gone. Someone has taken her. Please. Send someone. I can’t… I need her back. She’s going to be hungry, and they can’t feed her. She doesn’t take a bottle. Please. I need her back.”
“Are you in danger?” she asks, but I shake my head, muttering some kind of negative. She types some more before asking, “Is there someone at your property with you?”
“No. It’s just Phoebe and I,” I choke out. The word feels bitter, and my stomach churns. I shouldn’t have been alone. Ryan should’ve been here with me, he could’ve protected us. He could’ve made my food whilst I watched her. I nip my forearm again, drawing blood with the act, but it seems to push the panic further out of my mind and gives me the chance to refocus on this conversation. My voice is calmer when I speak now, although my heart is still pounding. “I’m alone, I think, and I’m safe. But my daughter is not.”
“An officer will be there momentarily,” she says, mirroring my calm. “We’re tracing your phone, and we’ve got units moving to your location now. What’s your name, Miss?”
“Maia. Maia Blake.”
“Okay, Maia. Where are you now?”
“The kitchen.”
“Stay in the kitchen, if that’s possible, just until the police arrive.” I nod, and I hear a click of her computer mouse. “Has anything unusual happened? I know that she’s gone, but are there any signs of…” She trails off, and I can detect embarrassment in her tone.
Was she going to ask if there’s foul play? As if my newborn baby could fight back?
Of course, there’s foul play.
I take a deep breath. “Um, they… there’s a wolf in her crib. They, whoever did this, took my child and left a wolf in her place,” I say before breaking down into tears once more. My heart physically aches as I sob down the line, and I can feel the coldness seeping in.
I lost my fiancé. He was taken before his time. Some say it’s not the length of the life but the quality of it, but Ryan deserved more.
And now my daughter—his daughter—is gone, too.
The world is too fucking cruel.
“There’s a wolf in my house where my baby should be,” I whisper through my tears. “There’s no baby. My baby is gone.”
She doesn’t complain when I repeat myself over and over, just continues to type away on her computer. Eventually, her typing stops, and we sit there in a deafening silence.
There’s a knock on the door that shatters the silence, and my scream escapes without my permission, a guttural reaction echoing the fear that is gripping at me.
The dispatch lady—Alice? Mandy?—tries to reassure me that it’s just the police, that it’s safe to answer. But it’s not until she utters that they’re here to help me find Phoebe that her words break through my panic.
I hang up on her, unable to even bring myself to say thank you, and drag myself through the living room to the front door, ignoring the soft whine from the wolf in the crib that’s going to need replacing once Phoebe is home.
My heart is pounding, and I’m terrified. Terrified, they can’t help. Terrified that she’s hurt.
Or worse.
Why would someone do this? Why would someone take her?
I yank open the front door, and I freeze when I see two identical officers standing in front of me. They’ve got short dark brown hair, an identical beard—even down to the trim length—and bright blue fitted uniforms with Police sprawled across them. They’re at least a head taller than I am, and their faces have similar expressions of concern etched into them.
