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Ten Years Prior
PIERCING BLUE EYES FULL OF shock and terror fly open the second I open the closet in her tiny room. I drop to my knees as the wind expels from my lungs and I find myself struggling to breathe. She’s shaking so hard, a pink polka-dotted bunny stuffed in her mouth as she tries to mask her cries. I can practically hear the pounding of her heartbeat slamming against her tiny ribcage. She’s wearing a pair of pink pajamas that I know aren’t keeping her warm on this cold October night and I know if I touch her hand, they’ll be as cold as ice.
She scoots back further into the closet, bumping into a few pink toys that look older than me in her effort to put space between us. She pushes them toward me in an attempt to deter me from coming closer, so I proceed with caution.
Holy shit, she was here this whole time?
My mind goes through a million scenarios, wondering if this young girl was a witness to the devastation just below.
“No, hey, I’m here to help; I’m a police officer.” I coo at her as I reach a hand out for her. Her skin is pale, but you can’t tell due to how red and blotchy her face is. The only part of her face that isn’t red are her lips which look slightly blue from the arctic temperatures of her bedroom. Her chocolate hair is pulled into two French braids that go down her back and her blue eyes are swimming with tears. She blinks several times as she lets the bunny fall from her mouth.
“Mama?” Her voice is soft and high pitched and I can hear the tears building in her throat. She must have been hiding because she knew something bad was happening.
But how much does she know?
Did she see the tragedy unfold?
Did she witness her father murder her mother?
I clear my throat. “Mama isn’t…” I blink my eyes trying to figure out how to explain the gruesome scene downstairs to a terrified child.
I hear commotion downstairs and I know it’s the fire department, EMTs and officers from all over the state scouring the premises for clues. When homicide-suicide got called in over the radio, everyone reported for duty.
I’ve been in the police force for just under a year, after getting my Associate’s degree right after high school and spending a year fucking around, wondering what the hell I wanted to do with my life. At twenty-three, I am one of the youngest on the force in Ferrell County inside a small town in Oregon. The town had a few more than three thousand people and it definitely isn’t my scene, having been born and raised in Portland, but this is where they need me.
“There’s a lot of people downstairs right now…but we’re gonna go,” I whisper softly. “I’m going to take you somewhere safe, alright? Where no one can hurt you.”
She cranes her neck to try and look behind me and shakes her tiny head one more time. “No.”
No? She can’t possibly think she can stay here. “Sweetheart.”
“Madeline.” She corrects me and her angelic voice floats around me again.
“Is that your name?”
She nods and pushes something towards me. A book. A small smile finds my face when I recognize the cover. The Eiffel Tower and young girls in two straight lines or however it goes all wearing yellow hats and matching clothes.
“Like her.” She points. “Mama loves it. She reads to me every night. But you can call me Maddie.”
I nod again. “Maddie is a pretty name… I’m Cal.”
“Cal.” Her voice wavers slightly, but after a moment she sticks her hand out. “How do you do?” I chuckle at her politeness before I take her tiny hand that’s as cold as ice and shake it. Her hand squeezes mine and I wonder if it’s because she doesn’t want me to let go or if she’s just trying to warm her hands.
I hear someone coming up the stairs and it puts me on high alert when I hear them announce themselves. “Stand down,” I growl over my shoulder, knowing that another large man was not what this girl needed to see. I was larger than a number of the guys on the force. At six-four, and in the shape of my life, I was someone most people didn’t want to fuck with. The list of people who showed up to spar with me in the ring at the station has dwindled to practically nothing over the past few months. I’m intimidating enough to a small child, I’m sure.
“Is there a child?” I hear whispered. “Should we send in Daniels?” I roll my eyes as I think about Officer Aria Daniels. She was the officer who was always called in whenever there were any hostile domestic situations involving children. She hated it.
“You guys are so sexist!” she would claim with her hands firmly planted on her hips. But kids loved her. They felt safe with her. And that’s all we cared about. That they felt safe.
