“She was barefoot,” Principal Daniels continued. “Her feet are cut up from gravel. She has bruises on her arms and legs. She hasn’t said a word since she got here.”
The room felt like it tilted slightly.
“She just keeps writing the same sentence over and over.”
“What sentence?” I asked, even though part of me already feared the answer.
“‘Grandpa hurt me.’”
Within seconds I was pulling on my clothes, my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear as I rushed around the hotel room.
“Have you called the police?” I demanded.
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “They’re on their way. A custodian found her sitting outside the school doors.”
She had walked more than a mile in the freezing February night to get there.
Barefoot.
I hung up and immediately called my wife.
Voicemail.
I tried again.
Voicemail.
I called the house phone.
Nothing.
Then I dialed my father-in-law, Dr. Robert Whitmore.
Retired surgeon. Highly respected. The kind of man everyone in town admired.
He answered immediately.
“Daniel,” he said calmly. “This is a strange time to call.”
“Where is Lily?” I asked.
“She’s asleep, I assume,” he replied.