Chapter 7 - Caleb’s Box
Police moved Emily and June again before midnight.
This time, no motel.
A protected location.
I was told to stay away for twenty-four hours.
I hated it.
Not because I thought I was essential.
Because June had built safety around a broken Harley headlight, and now I had become part of whatever map existed in her head.
At 7:10 the next morning, Collins came to my shop.
“We need Caleb’s box.”
“It’s with Emily.”
“No. She says it isn’t.”
“Where is it?”
“She gave it to her mother six years ago.”
“Where does her mother live?”
“Dayton.”
I grabbed my keys.
Collins stopped me.
“You’re not law enforcement.”
“No.”
“You’re also now part of the threat environment.”
“That sounds fancy.”
“It means stay here.”
“No.”
She stared.
I stared back.
Twenty minutes later, I was in the passenger seat of an unmarked sedan.
I consider that a win.
Emily’s mother, Ruth Carter, lived in a ranch house with ceramic birds on the porch.
She opened the door before we knocked.
“I saw the news.”
“What news?” Collins asked.
Ruth’s face changed.
She turned on the television.
A local station was reporting a missing child alert.
June Carter.
Photograph.
Description.
Last seen walking home from school.
Emily’s number listed.
I stared.
“She isn’t missing.”
Collins grabbed her phone.
The alert was fake.
Posted through a cloned local-news page.
Shared thousands of times.
A photograph of June was already moving across social media.
Her protected location was now at risk.
Ruth covered her mouth.
“Who would do this?”
“Darren,” I said.
Collins called the team guarding Emily.
No answer.
She called again.
A deputy answered.
“Detective?”
“What’s your status?”
“We had a fire alarm. Building evacuated.”
Collins went pale.
“Where are Emily and June?”
A pause.
“They’re not in their room.”
I was already moving.
Ruth grabbed my arm.
“The box.”
I turned.
She pointed toward the garage.
“It’s not here anymore.”
“Who took it?”
Ruth’s face collapsed.
“Emily’s sister, Sarah.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
Collins froze.
Before anyone spoke, my phone buzzed.
A photo message.
June.
Sitting in the back seat of a car.
Not crying.
Looking straight at the camera.
Holding up four fingers.
May you like
Underneath, one sentence.
SHE COUNTED WRONG THIS TIME.
