“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” I murmured.
Embedded near his ear was a chip, and attached to the vest was a metal tag I recognized instantly.
U.S. MILITARY K9 UNIT.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, my wife’s name flashing on the screen, but I ignored it as Sergeant Owen Parker stepped into the room, rain still clinging to his uniform.
“Tell me you didn’t just find a military dog and a restrained child in your ER,” he said quietly.
“I wish I could,” I replied. “Do you recognize him?”
Parker swallowed hard. “That’s Atlas.”
The name landed like a weight.
“He belongs to a retired Special Forces operator,” Parker continued. “Name’s Grant Holloway. Lives near the quarry outside town. Has a daughter.”
My chest tightened. “What’s her name?”
“Maeve,” Parker said. “Six years old.”
Before either of us could speak again, Allison returned, holding a sealed evidence bag.
“We found this in her pocket,” she said.
Inside was a soaked scrap of paper, written in a rushed, adult hand.
HE DIDN’T MEAN TO. HE LOST CONTROL.
Silence swallowed the room.
Parker exhaled slowly. “Grant’s been struggling,” he admitted. “But hurting his own kid?”
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then darkness.