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.
