For a moment he wondered if he had dialed the wrong number. But the number matched the file.
“I need to speak with Ana Ramirez,” he said, trying to keep his firm executive tone.
“Sir…” the voice cracked. “My mommy won’t wake up.”
The words struck him like a needle to the chest.
Victor straightened in his chair.
“What do you mean she won’t wake up? Where are you?” he asked, already rising.
“At home. She was lying on the couch… then she got very still. She’s breathing funny… making a strange noise.” The girl began crying softly. “I don’t know what to do. My dad left a long time ago.”
Victor swallowed hard.
Suddenly the red report on his desk meant nothing. The absences didn’t matter. In his mind there was only a frightened child trying to save her mother through a phone call.
“Listen carefully,” he said, steadying his voice. “What’s your name?”
“Emma. I’m six.”
“Emma, you were very brave answering the phone. I need your address.”
She recited it carefully, like someone who had memorized it in case of emergencies. The location was on the edge of the city—one of those neighborhoods Victor only saw through tinted car windows.