His shoulders pulled back. His voice dropped. The flashlight in his hand tilted away from the little girl and toward the man walking through the trees.
“Mr. Vale,” the sheriff said. “You need to stay back.”
The man’s eyes never touched me. They went straight to the blanket in my arms.
“Where is she?” he repeated.
The little girl heard his voice.
Her small hands, weak a second earlier, locked around the front of my coat so hard her knuckles whitened. Her breath caught against my chest in short, tearing pulls. Her body did not cry. It folded inward like a door being slammed from the inside.
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