But the first questions would be only the beginning, and when the answers proved unsatisfactory, the questions, and the doubts, would grow. Dash wasn’t a little boy anymore, to be bought off with stories about scavenger hunts and games as the reasons they had been on the run, or vague explanations that Delgado was a bad man who had been trying to hurt them because he thought Evie had information Delgado wanted, and that Marvin had made Delgado go away. Dash had always believed Marvin’s vague assurance that he had been one kind of contractor, for the government, and now had become another, the kind that builds houses. And while she knew Dash wouldn’t indulge those fictions forever, she had always hoped he would hold on to them for longer.
She glanced at the clock on the screen. Not yet five. She was tired, but she didn’t want to go to one of the couches, or even to nod off. After the custodians had finished cleaning and left for the night, she had put her and Dash’s cellphones in her office as Marvin had instructed. But with a twist—she had turned on FaceTime on each phone, and was now monitoring the feeds from the checkout desk computer. If anyone entered her office, she would know.
Not that she was really expecting anything like that. But . . . it couldn’t hurt to be careful. Just in case.
Dash moaned in his sleep and she glanced over at him. Curled on the couch in the faint light from the parking lot, he looked smaller than he was. Like the little boy he’d been and not the teenager he’d become. She felt a wave of desperate love for him. And an underlying ripple of terror that somehow, she had put him in danger.
She rubbed her eyes. She wished it would get light. Everything would feel better then. More sane.
Through the computer speaker, she heard a soft electric buzz. It stopped, then started again.
She looked at the feed. She didn’t see anything. But whatever sleepiness she’d been feeling was instantly gone, replaced by an adrenalized alertness.
The buzz continued, then abruptly stopped. She heard the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking open.
Her heart started hammering and her mouth was instantly dry. She stared intently at FaceTime through the camera aimed at her office door.
The door opened. A man came through. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid someone would hear it.
She had left a desk light on in the office. It wasn’t enough to make out the man’s features. But she could see the brown uniform. The UPS guy she had seen at the house.
He was holding something in his hand. It might have been an electric toothbrush, but she knew better. It was an electric lock-pick gun. That’s what she’d heard buzzing. The man slipped the pick gun into a pocket and began moving stealthily through her office.
She was convulsed by a wave of terror. 911, she thought. Call 911.
But the cellphones were in her office—
She realized that in her panic, she’d forgotten all about the landline. She grabbed the receiver, shocked at how badly her hands were shaking, and brought it to her ear.
No dial tone.
Wait, wait, you need an outside line. Hurry—
She managed to punch the 9 button. Dial tone. Thank God.
She punched in the three digits. A single ring. Then a man’s voice: “911. What is your emergency?”
“My name is Evelyn Gallagher,” she whispered. “I’m a teacher at the School for the Deaf. There’s a man in my office. I think he’s going to hurt us.”
“Where are you now, ma’am?”
“At the school.”
“In your office?”
“No. In the library. But I think—he’s looking for us.”
“All right. Stay where you are. We’re sending units right away. Do you want me to remain on the phone?”