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“Another ambush?” he asks, shaking his head and walking into the kitchen. “Cecelia, you have certainly inherited your mother’s persistence, but I’ll tell you the same as I used to tell her—”
He stops mid-sentence as Connie flies in, knees bloodied, hands and head grazed, cheeks wet with tears. We’re a tableau of shock as we all gape at her.
“Constance!” says Papa, crossing over to the doorway just in time for her to fall against him. The second I see her I know something isn’t right. Not just with Connie but with the world as I know it. I love my sister dearly but it’s only now that my brain has had chance to register what my eyes can’t see that I ask the only question I desperately need an answer to: “Where’s Micah?”
Connie sobs and babbles against Papa and I can’t understand what she’s saying. I look at Michael and see my own rising terror reflected in his eyes.
“Connie, where’s Micah?” I repeat. My voice sounds far away, as though it’s coming through one of Micah’s walkie-talkies.
I don’t even give her enough time to answer before I stride towards her, peel her off our father and grab her by the top of her arms. Her head bobs like a puppet without its strings. I shake her roughly, trying to loosen the information she contains.
“Connie, where’s Micah?!” I scream in her face.
“Cece…” I hear Michael behind me, feel his hand on my shoulder but all I can see and feel is red.
“Someone took him,” she finally whispers.
“What?” I say. I let go of her and she slumps to the ground at my feet. My father hurriedly bundles her up and helps her over to one of the chairs, which he sits her in like a doll. She wraps her arms around herself and leans forward.
Maria, who has appeared again due to all the commotion, efficiently places a bowl beneath Connie in case she vomits and rubs her back soothingly.
“She’s in shock,” says Michael, running a hand through his hair. He begins to pace as he always does when he’s worried or stressed.
I pull out another chair and sit opposite Connie, leaning forward too so our heads are almost touching. I feel as though I’ve left my body and I’m watching myself from above. I have never felt fear this intense, this visceral before, not even when I was kidnapped myself.
“Connie, who took him?” I ask, measuring my tone. I already know that at some point in the future, I will feel terrible about the way I just grabbed and screamed at my sister, but right now all I care about is Micah.
Connie is shivering and her teeth are chattering. The tears pour from her eyes. Blood drips down her right shin from the cut on her knee. The other knee isn’t as bad but still looks painful.
“I’ll go and get a blanket and the first aid kit,” says Maria, leaving us. I’m aware of Papa and Michael hovering worriedly behind us, trusting that I’ll be able to get through to her.
“I don’t know,” she says, finally glancing up at me. “Someone slammed into me…from behind…I fell.” She sniffs and wipes her nose with her hand. It leaves a snot trail. “I was holding his hand…Micah’s hand…” She screws up her face as she relives it.
It takes all my restraint not to bark questions at her, to demand answers. I jiggle my knee impatiently, but I force myself to wait for her to tell me more.
“I fell and let go…banged my head. Then he was gone.” She unwraps her arms, throws her hands in the air, then dissolves into tears again as Maria returns and wraps a blanket around her heaving shoulders.
I look at Papa and Michael in bewildered shock. If I wasn’t living the worst moment of my life, I would be feeling thankful that they’re both in the same room and on the same side.
“We need to contact the police,” I say, reaching for my phone.
The doorbell sounds, cutting through our words and thoughts.
“Whoever could that be?” asks Maria, speaking for us all. She pats a still crying Connie on the shoulder and scuttles out of the kitchen to answer the door.
“Connie…” Papa sits down next to his daughter and takes one of her hands. “Did you see anything unusual outside the school, anyone you didn’t recognize, any strange cars?”
Connie looks at Papa helplessly, shrugging her answer.
Just as I think that this situation couldn’t possibly get any more devastating, I hear Raphael’s voice in the hallway. He bounds into the kitchen wearing a worried expression, Maria hot on his heels.
“Maria says you’re dealing with a crisis. What happened?”
I see Michael bristle, but Papa rises from his chair and briefly embraces Raphael, placing his hand on the back of his neck in a fatherly gesture. My stomach roils but as much as I despise my former best friend and attempted rapist, I’ve got bigger worries right now.
“It’s little Micah,” Papa tells Raphael. “He was taken outside school. Someone assaulted Connie and took him.” Papa’s voice cracks as he recounts the news.
“We need to call the police,” I say again.
