Part 10
“He’ll say I’m building a case.”
“You are preserving facts.”
“He’ll say that’s the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
Amelia looked toward Emma. “What about custody?”
“One step at a time. This may support a modification, or it may support stricter transportation controls. We need documents. We need the BrightPath records. We need to understand exactly what Mark did and what the company did with it.”
“He tried to change pickup at 3:12.”
“You have the log?”
“A screenshot.”
“Good. Save it somewhere Mark cannot access.”
“He can’t access my laptop.”
“Save it somewhere else anyway.”
Amelia almost smiled. Priya’s paranoia had better posture than most people’s confidence.
“Can I ask you something?” Amelia said.
“Yes.”
“How do I tell Emma what happens next?”
Priya’s voice softened. “You tell her the grown-ups made a mistake, you are making a safer plan, and she is not responsible for managing anyone’s feelings about it.”
“She asked if I was mad at her.”
“Oh, Amelia.”
“I know.”
“No. Listen. Children assume they are the center of everything, including blame. You keep telling her clearly. Not emotionally perfectly. Clearly.”
“Okay.”
“And sleep if you can.”
Amelia looked at the laptop, the open timeline, the phone, the backpack, the email from Pollard. “That seems unlikely.”
“Then lie down near her and fail at sleeping horizontally.”
This time Amelia did smile, barely.
After they hung up, Amelia printed everything. The townhouse printer, rarely used except for school forms and tax documents, chose that night to jam after page three. She opened the tray and found a crumpled sheet wedged inside like a small white animal. She laughed once, an ugly little sound, then fixed it with the grim patience of a woman who needed one machine in the house to do what it was told.
At 11:18, Mark texted again.
I know I scared you by coming over. I shouldn’t have. I just panicked. Please let me talk to Emma in the morning before school.
Amelia stared at the message.
Before tonight, she might have responded with a compromise because refusing made her feel punitive. A short call. A supervised FaceTime. Something that let Mark feel less terrible so he would behave better. She had done that more times than she liked to count: offered him a narrow bridge back from his own choices and then praised herself for maturity while privately resenting the toll.
She typed:
Emma will not speak with you before I speak with counsel and BrightPath. She is safe and sleeping. Do not come to the house again without agreement.
She sent it before she could soften it.
Mark did not respond immediately.
Then:
This is exactly what I mean.
Then:
You’re punishing me.
Amelia typed:
No. I am protecting her.
She set the phone face down.
At midnight, Emma woke again and asked for water. Amelia brought it. Emma drank, half-asleep, spilling a little onto the blanket. Amelia wiped it with the corner of her sleeve and did not mention it.
“Are you sleeping here?” Emma asked.
“On the chair.”
“That chair is bad.”
“It’s fine.”
“You say that when things are not fine.”
“I do.”
Emma looked at her through heavy eyes. “You can use the other blanket.”
“Thank you.”
Emma turned over. “Don’t work all night.”
“I won’t.”
This was a lie, but a loving one, and Amelia was too tired to judge herself for it.
She took the other blanket and sat in the armchair facing the sofa. The laptop remained open in the kitchen, its light visible across the room like a small blue accusation. She did not close it. She also did not get up.
For twenty minutes, she watched Emma sleep.
The room changed as the night deepened. Shadows moved with passing headlights. The lamp hummed faintly. The cream blanket rose and fell over Emma’s narrow back. A child could be rescued and still carry the waiting with her. A mother could arrive and still be late. These were not thoughts Amelia wanted, but exhaustion made honesty less avoidable.
At 12:27, the phone rang again.
Unknown number.
Amelia snatched it from the side table before it woke Emma and stepped into the kitchen.
“This is Amelia Ross.”
No answer at first. Only a breath, then road noise or static.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice said, “Ms. Ross?”
“Yes.”
“This is Victor Harlan. I was the driver.”
Amelia straightened.
The house seemed to grow quieter.
Victor spoke quickly, low, as if he were calling from somewhere he should not. “I’m sorry to call so late. I got your number from the trip sheet before they locked me out of the app. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t sleep.”
Amelia moved to the table and grabbed her pen.
May you like
“Where are you calling from?”
“My car. Outside my apartment. I don’t want my wife to hear me get myself fired.”
