“Ma’am, a 911 call came from this address at 11:42 p.m.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“It was canceled almost immediately. The caller said it was a mistake.”
“That wasn’t Chloe,” I whispered.
Collins nodded slowly. “The voice was an adult male.”
They requested permission to enter. Within minutes, the side door was forced open.
“Police! Rachel Thompson! Chloe Thompson!”
Silence.
The air inside smelled sharply of cleaning solution. The living room was stripped—no photos, no decorations, no television. The refrigerator stood open and empty.
“It looks like someone cleared it out,” Brooks said quietly.
“She wouldn’t just leave,” I insisted.
Rachel’s bedroom was bare. Closet empty. Drawers cleared.
Chloe’s room—same thing. Mattress only. No stuffed animals.
On the floor sat Chloe’s tablet.
Brooks picked it up carefully. A sticky note was taped to the back.
He read it aloud:
“IF YOU COME LOOKING, YOU’LL NEVER SEE THEM AGAIN.”
“STOP CALLING.”
My knees weakened.
“That’s Mark,” I said. I didn’t need proof.
Collins’s voice hardened. “We’re treating this as an abduction.”
In the laundry room, faint wet footprints led toward the back door. On the handle, a dark smear.
“Possibly blood,” Brooks said.