He lifted her carefully. She weighed almost nothing.
“Where’s Rachel?” he asked quietly. “Where’s your stepmother?”
Emily froze. Her gaze darted toward the dark staircase. Her whole body began to shake.
“Don’t tell her you’re home,” she whispered. “Please. She’ll hurt Noah again. She said if we told anyone, we’d disappear forever.”
Jonathan’s chest felt crushed. He truly saw his daughter then—the bruises along her arms, fingerprints on her shoulders, a cigarette burn on her wrist, her hair hacked unevenly in rage.
Noah whimpered. Emily struggled weakly in Jonathan’s arms.
“He needs water,” she begged. “I tried to save some for him. I saved my spit. It wasn’t enough. I tried, Daddy.”
Jonathan called 911, his voice unnaturally calm.
“Two children. Severe abuse. Starvation. Dehydration. One broken, infected leg. One infant near death. Please hurry.”
He cradled Noah and gave him tiny drops of water, careful not to overwhelm his fragile body. Noah sucked weakly.
Emily watched, relief twisting with pain.
Only then did Jonathan realize she hadn’t asked for water for herself.
“Drink,” he urged.
She took small sips, coughing, crying.