Cold panic flooded through me.
My daughter, Rachel Thompson, lived only ten minutes away in a small rental house. Rachel was thirty-five, organized, cautious. She didn’t sleep all day. And Chloe wouldn’t call me at midnight unless she was afraid.
I grabbed my keys and drove.
The house was dark. No porch light. No car in the driveway.
I pounded on the door. “Rachel! Chloe!”
Nothing.
Through the kitchen window, everything looked… stripped. Bare counters. No lamp glow.
Then I saw Chloe’s purple backpack on the floor near the back door, unzipped like it had been dropped mid-step.
My heart flipped.
I called 911.
“My granddaughter called saying her mother hasn’t woken up all day,” I told dispatch. “Now the house is empty.”
Officers arrived within minutes—Officer Megan Collins and Officer Daniel Brooks. Flashlights swept the yard.
“You’re the caller?” Collins asked.
“Yes,” I said. “She was inside when she called. Now they’re gone.”
Brooks checked the doors. “No forced entry.”
Collins studied me. “Anyone causing problems recently?”
I hesitated. “Her ex. Mark Reynolds. Chloe’s father. He’s been pushing for more custody.”
Collins’s radio crackled. She listened, then looked at me.