Page 84 of Hidden Truths

“Your mama is calling,”I tell Cora. I got her in her swimsuit before we left and she knows that means water, so she’s been pretty excited for the entire ride to the water park.

“Hey, Firecracker,” I say with a smile. I love how much effort she’s put into our girl’s birthday. “We’re on our way.”

A muffled scream comes through the speakers of the rental car I’m driving, and I almost drive right off the road. I pull over more carefully and throw it into park.

“Harlow?” my dad says, worry creasing his face.

“Harlow!” I say more urgently.

The line goes dead, and I immediately try calling back. It goes straight to voicemail, but I try over and over again. My dad puts his hand over mine before I can tell the car to redial.

“Where was she? We need to start there.”

“I don’t know. A nail salon?” I desperately try to force air into my lungs.

“Look at me, Callahan!”

I startle at the sharp edge of my dad’s tone, but I do what he says.

“Who would know where she is?” he asks more calmly.

“Jo,” I answer and immediately call her.

“Hey, are you —”

“Where is Harlow?” I ask, cutting her off.

“Getting her nails done. What happened?” Jo asks, hearing the panic in my voice.

“She called me and there was a scream and now her phone is off. Where is she, Jo?” My question comes out more like a demand, but I don’t have the time to care.

“Sparkle Toes on West Sixth Street.”

I look it up on my phone. It’s less than three minutes on foot. I look at my dad. He nods before I get out of the car and run. Taking the car would be faster, but I can’t put Cora in danger too.

My phone is still in my hand and disconnects from the Bluetooth as I move away from the car.

“Call Harrison and the police. Fuck, call the National Guard. Something is wrong, Jo. I can feel it.”

“On it,” she says and then hangs up.

I run as fast as I can, every muscle in my body straining to get to the woman I love. A little over a minute later, I come to a skidding halt in front of a strip mall. The police are already there and a small middle-aged woman with black hair and thick red glasses is speaking to one of the officers.

“Where is she? Where is Harlow?”

“I’m sorry sir, but this is a crime scene, and I’m going to need you to back up,” the officer says, trying to get me to move back from them.

“Are you Cal?” the small woman asks me.

“Yes. Please. Where is she?” I plead.

“I don’t know,” she says, her eyes welling up with tears. “She walked out of the store to go to her little girl’s birthday party. She was so excited. But then a man pulled up in a black car. He tried to get her to go in, but she was heading back in here. Then some other man grabbed her.”

“Why didn’t you stop him?” I scream, some part of me understanding how unfair that is, but the other part is too worried about Harlow to care.

“I tried!” she yells and turns to fully face me. One side of her face is red and swollen. “I called the police the moment I saw how uncomfortable she looked when the car pulled up. I went out to try to stop the man from taking her, but he knocked me down and drove off with the first man. Harlow was unconscious.”

“Thank you,” I choke out. It’s the most I can manage right now, and she seems to understand.

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