I told the dispatcher that my son’s bus driver had warned me
about our nanny.
I explained that Ethan was frightened, that Melissa had refused to leave the area, and that she was sitting in her car directly across from our home.
The dispatcher told me officers were only a few minutes away.
“Stay inside,” she instructed.
“Do not touch anything.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
I ended the call and pressed the phone against my chest.
Through the kitchen window, I could still see part of Melissa’s car.
She hadn’t moved.
Then Ethan quietly tugged on my sleeve.
“Mom…”
I looked down.
His face had gone pale.
He was staring toward the backyard.
“Melissa said I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”
My stomach dropped.
I crouched down in front of him.
“What weren’t you supposed to tell me?”
He pointed toward the old wooden playhouse.
The playhouse had been in our yard since Ethan was four.
My brother had built it from
cedar boards, complete with a small window, a crooked bench, and a roof painted dark green.
Ethan hardly used it anymore.
“For a moment, I couldn’t move.
Then I was running before I even realized what I was doing.
I burst through the back door and sprinted across the yard.
Cold air hit my face.
The grass was damp beneath my shoes.
The little wooden playhouse stood exactly where it always had.
Quiet.
Ordinary.
Except for one thing.
One corner of the roof looked different.
A panel had been lifted just enough to leave a narrow gap.
My heart was pounding so hard that I could barely breathe.
I climbed onto the small bench beside the playhouse.
The wood creaked beneath my weight.
I reached upward, my fingers inches from the loose panel.
Then I froze.
A car door slammed across the street.
I turned.
Melissa had gotten out of
her car.
And she was running straight toward our backyard.
I looked back at the roof.
Then I reached for the loose panel.
