“The deadbolt is locked from the outside, Jackson,” I said, my finger tracing the torn arm of the doll. “The car is here. If they walked, they left Mia’s doll on the steps.”
“You are overreacting, Emily,” Jackson said, his voice dropping into that defensive tone he used whenever I questioned his mother. “She probably just went out the back door and took the stroller.”
“The stroller is in my trunk,” I said.
“Then she carried her,” Jackson said. “Just wait on the porch. I will call her cell phone when I finish this car.”
“I already called her cell three times,” I said. “It goes straight to voicemail.”
“She is fifty-eight, Emily, she does not look at her screen every second,” Jackson said. “Do not start a project out of nothing. Just sit in your car and wait for her.”
I stared at the thick white paint of the door frame, noticing a tiny scratch near the keyhole. “I am on the porch right now, and something is terribly wrong.”
“If you make a scene, my mother is never going to let this go,” Jackson said. “Just go home.”
“No,” I said.
I ended the call before he could answer. My hand was steady as I cleared the screen and tapped the keypad, dialing the three digits I had never had to use before.
The line rang once, a sharp beep in my ear, before a flat, calm voice answered.
The dispatcher took the address twice, her voice flat and steady through the small speaker of my phone. I stood on the porch with the heat of the late afternoon pressing against my neck, staring down at the torn red yarn hair of my daughter’s doll.
