I froze.
The garage door was down but the side window was cracked two inches. I couldn’t see much. A cot. A small blanket. A plate on the floor.
My stomach dropped.
I told my husband. He said I was overreacting. I told my neighbor Carol. She said Dale was odd but harmless. I told the police. They came. They left. Nobody did anything.
By Thursday I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think straight. That little girl hadn’t come out once. I hadn’t seen her mother. I hadn’t seen anyone bring her food except Dale.
I made a decision. I walked across the street, up his driveway, and banged on his front door.
When he opened it, I told him I knew what he was doing and he had ten minutes before I called the FBI.
He stared at me for a long time. Then he stepped aside and said, “Come look.”
I walked through his house, through the kitchen, through the back hall, and when he opened the door to the garage I saw the little girl sitting cross-legged on a cot, coloring. She looked up at me and smiled.
And standing behind her, with bruises up both arms and a gash across her left cheek, was her mother.
