Page 187 of Filthy Savage

Crap. I’ll have to pass it to the manager.

Intending to go there after I’m done, I start for the stall, and as I do, something slips out.

“What the…” I look down at a photo printed on plain paper, and it takes a few long seconds for my brain to catch up to my eyes.

My heart gallops up to my throat, my skin turning ice-cold.

Because in the photo is my daughter sitting on a chair, holding a teddy bear, fear in her eyes.

“Oh my God,” I pant.

Someone has her. Someone took our baby!

When I turn the photo around, I read the words, unable to make sense of any of it.

We have her. Come alone. If you tell anyone, she’s dead. 746 Tavern Lane. Boston.

“Oh my God!” I stumble, bracing myself on the wall so I don’t collapse.

Panic grips me, and I’m unable to breathe, my hands shaking as I get my phone and call her preschool.

The phone rings and rings just as Emily comes out.

“Amara? What’s wrong?” Concern hits her features instantly, while I lift a finger in the air, indicating for her to hold on.

“Hi, may I help you?” the secretary asks.

“Hi, this is…uh, Amara Quinn.” My voice shakes, the phone almost dropping from my jittery clasp.

“Oh, yes. Hi there, Mrs. Quinn. Is there a problem?”

“My daughter, Fia. Is she there?”

Silence.

Nonono!

“Uh, she’s not… She was picked up about an hour ago.”

“What! Oh my God.” I collapse onto the ground, the phone falling out of my grasp while flickers of light erupt before my eyes like stars.

“Amara! What’s wrong?” Emily helps me up, getting the phone for me, while the photo of Fia is tight in my palm.

I can’t let her see it. I just can’t. Whoever they are, they told me no one can know. I can’t let anything happen to my daughter.

Oh my God, my baby!

I start to cry.

“What do you mean, she was picked up?! By who?” I holler through the tears, swiping at them.

“Uh, let me check that for you.” She pauses. “Is everything okay?”

“No! It’s not okay. I don’t know who picked up my child.”

I dig a fist into my chest, unable to pull in air, my left side heavy like I’m having a heart attack, but it’s panic. I felt this before growing up, panicking every time my mother was high.

“So, the ID of the person who got her is Desdemona Edwards.”

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