Twice.
Three times.
Straight to voicemail.
A cold knot tightened in his chest.
Outside the windshield, the world blurred past—trees, fences, streetlights—but inside his mind time moved painfully slow.
The words echoed again and again.
“I can’t carry Liam anymore.”
When he turned onto their street, the porch light was on.
The house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, silent.
Too silent.
No television.
No music.
Not even the usual barking from the neighbor’s dogs.
Michael shut off the truck and listened.
Nothing.
Ranger let out a low growl.
Michael pushed the front door open.
It wasn’t locked.
The smell hit him first—spilled milk, cheap cleaning spray, and something sour that smelled like neglect.
The entry floor was wet.
Broken dishes lay near the kitchen.
A chair was knocked over.
A soaked rag dragged a dirty streak across the tile.
“Sophie!” he shouted.
For a moment, there was no answer.
Then a faint whimper came from the kitchen.
Michael hurried forward, heart pounding.
And then he saw her.
Seven-year-old Sophie Hayes was kneeling on the cold floor, scrubbing the tiles with a damp towel. Her hair stuck to her forehead, her hands were red and shaking, and her small shoulders trembled with exhaustion.