Rick laughed.
“I install security systems for half this town. I know every deputy by name.”
Another recording began in the middle of an argument.
Laura was crying.
Rick said, “You leave again, and those kids lose both parents.”
Then came a heavy sound.
A cabinet door.
Or a body striking a wall.
Ben whispered from somewhere nearby, “Mom?”
The recording ended.
There were 23 audio files.
The photographs were worse.
Bruises on Laura’s arms.
A split lip.
A bedroom door with a lock installed on the outside.
A handgun under the driver’s seat of Rick’s truck.
A shovel, rope, and several containers of fuel in a storage compartment.
There were screenshots from Laura’s phone showing messages Rick had sent.
You embarrass me again, and no one will find enough of you to bury.
Tell your sister you were confused.
The final photograph showed a handwritten list.
Laura.
Mia.
Ben.
Rachel.
Beside each name was a date.
I called 911.
The dispatcher told me not to approach the house or contact the children.
I explained that Rick’s truck was gone.
She asked whether Laura was home.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you see her vehicle?”
Laura did not have a car.
Rick told everyone she hated driving.
I suddenly wondered whether that was true.
Two patrol cars arrived without sirens.
A female detective named Vasquez came to my door.
She watched Mia’s video once.
Then she called someone and said, “We need a protective response now.”
The officers went next door.
No one answered.
The front door was locked.
Detective Vasquez called Laura’s phone.
It went straight to voicemail.
Then we heard something from the back of the house.
Three soft knocks.
A pause.
Three more.
One officer ran around the side.
Minutes later, he returned with Laura.
She was wearing pajamas under a long cardigan.
One side of her face was swollen.
Her left wrist was secured to a metal pipe in the laundry room with a bicycle lock.
Rick had taken the key.
Laura had spent six hours trying to hit the wall with a mop handle whenever she heard someone nearby.
“Where are the children?” Detective Vasquez asked.
Laura stared at me.
“What children?”
“Mia and Ben.”
“They’re upstairs.”
“No, they aren’t.”
The color left her face.
She ran toward the stairs before an officer stopped her.
