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"You call this clean, you little brat?" she hissed, her face contorted with rage. Emma tried to explain that she had been playing with the teddy bear, and that's why it was in her hand, but her mother wasn't listening. She looked at her watch, then at Emma and her two-year-younger sister Lily, whom she shared the room with and who hadn't helped clean up anything at all, only made it all worse.
Emma's mom got in her face and hissed.
"I'm giving you an hour to clean up this mess. Do you hear me? I don't want to see as much as one toy or even a speck of dust anywhere. Do you hear me?"
Emma looked at her feet with a sniffle, then nodded. "Y-yes, Mommy."
"So, what do you say to me?"
She looked up, not knowing what she meant.
"Yes, I will clean up."
She got in the girl's face again. "I want you to say you're sorry. Come on, let me hear it."
Emma bit back tears. She knew it would only make it worse if she began to cry.
"SAY IT!"
"S-sorry," she said, shaking.
Her mother stood up straight. "That's better. Now, promise me you'll be a good girl from now on. I want you perfect."
Emma could barely speak. “I-I'll be a good girl. I promise."
Her mother's nostrils were flaring, and Emma wasn't sure what she had said was enough.
"I promise to be better, Mommy," she said, bursting into tears.
"Okay. Now get to work. If it's not clean in an hour, you're scrubbing the kitchen floor, you hear me?"
"Y-yes, Mommy."
Chapter3
As we pulled up to the house, now both of us clean and smelling better, the husband, John, was outside, working on his truck. He stiffened as he saw us and seemed to pause for a moment before continuing his work under the hood. It seemed like an odd thing to do when your wife was missing, but maybe that was just me.
"John Baker?"
He looked up, then wiped his wrench on a towel.
John Baker stood motionless as he stared at us. He was a man of medium build with a receding hairline. His pale blue eyes locked onto ours. The wrench in his hand glistened with oil, and the smell of gasoline hung thick in the air. His truck’s engine was still running with a low rumble.
John wore an expression of surprise, yet his face remained unreadable. There was an inexplicable sense of detachment emanating from him as if the only thing keeping him from crumbling into a million pieces was his own indomitable will.
"John Baker?" I repeated, my voice cutting through the silence.
He paused for a moment before wordlessly nodding in response. After a few seconds, he finally spoke.
"Yes?"
"I'm FBI Agent Eva Rae Thomas, and this is Detective Matt Miller. We would like to talk to you about your wife, Rachel."
John's face fell, and his gaze shifted away from ours. He seemed to be lost in thought, so I continued.
"We understand if this is a difficult time for you, but we need your help."
Finally, John looked up and met my gaze. His expression softened, and he nodded his head in agreement.
