Biker on my street locked a little girl in his garage. I watched him do it.
I called the cops three times. Three times in three days. Each time they showed up, talked to him on the porch, and drove away.
I stood at my kitchen window shaking. That man had no business with a child. Everyone on Ridgemont Drive knew who Dale Pressler was. Fifty-eight years old. Harley parked in the driveway. Beard down to his chest. He played music loud on Saturday nights and never mowed his lawn past the front half.
And now he had a six-year-old girl in his garage.
I first noticed her on a Tuesday morning. I was bringing the trash cans in when I heard a small voice. Not screaming. Not crying. Just talking. And then Dale’s voice. Low. Calm. Like he was explaining something.
