Wayne Haller pulled Quinn through the exit doors and out into the rain.
I counted to three. Then I followed him.
“Loretta!” Darby yelled behind me. “Get back here!”
I didn’t get back there.
I had my phone in my apron pocket. We weren’t supposed to carry them on the floor. Company policy. I kept mine there anyway because my sister Bernice has a heart condition and I want to know if she calls.
I walked out into the parking lot as fast as my bad hip would let me. The rain was cold on my face. Wayne Haller was halfway across the lot, carrying Quinn now, her pink boots kicking against his side. He was heading for a dented silver sedan parked way out by the garden center.
I lifted my phone and started taking pictures.
My granddaughter taught me how to hold the button down so it takes a whole bunch of pictures at once. I’d only ever used it for the Fourth of July fireworks. I held that button down now and didn’t let go.
Wayne Haller opened the back door of the sedan. He put Quinn in the back seat. No car seat. Just put her down on the bare seat like a bag of groceries and slammed the door.
Then he turned around and saw me.
I was maybe thirty feet away. Phone up. Rain dripping off my nose.
For a second, I thought he was going to come at me. His hands balled up into fists. His face went red. He took one step in my direction.
I didn’t lower the phone. I kept that button pressed down.
And I got his face. Full on. Clear as a church window.
He swore at me. Something ugly I won’t repeat. Then he got in the driver’s seat and peeled out of that parking space so fast his back tire threw water all over my shoes.
As the car went past me, I swung the phone around and held it on the back bumper.
Texas plate. I said the numbers out loud as he drove away, over and over, so I’d remember even if the pictures came out blurry. And through the back window, I could see a little head of dark curls, and two small hands pressed flat against the glass.
She was looking at me.
The car turned onto General Bruce Drive and headed toward the interstate. And then it was gone.
I stood there in the rain shaking so hard I could barely work the phone. I dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“I think a little girl has just been kidnapped,” I said. “And I think I’m the only one who knows.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
Ethan holds a degree in Communications from Zurich University, where he developed his expertise in storytelling, media strategy, and audience engagement. Known for his ability to blend creativity with analytical precision, he excels at creating content that not only entertains but also connects deeply with readers.
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