Chapter 3

Twelve Minutes Too Long

The cold rain soaked Matteo’s hair before he reached the curb.

He did not run straight to the house. Urgency without control got people killed. From behind a parked SUV, he studied every visible window, the narrow side yard and the dark shape of a back door beneath a sagging awning.

No movement outside.

No second vehicle except a rusted pickup in the driveway.

No curtains shifting in neighboring homes.

Emma and Sarah had been suffering within twenty feet of other families, and no one had come.

Matteo took out his phone.

Put your phone on silent, including vibration. Is he upstairs now?

Her reply came quickly.

Not yet. He is yelling from the stairs.

Can you see a window from the closet?

No.

Anything heavy you can put against the door without making noise?

Mommy’s suitcase.

Do it only if you can be quiet. Then hide again.

He captured the full message thread and forwarded it to Vincent with the address.

Preserve these. Time received, original files, everything.

Vincent answered immediately.

Done. Walsh has a record. Calling you.

Matteo rejected the call.

Text only.

Then he dialed 911.

“911. What’s the address of your emergency?”

He gave the number and street.

“Tell me what happened.”

“A woman has been assaulted and may be unconscious. An eight-year-old girl is hiding upstairs from the attacker. His first name is Derek. He may have a weapon.”

“Are you at the location?”

Matteo watched the front door. It hung slightly open, a wedge of darkness between the frame and the jamb.

“I’m nearby.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Send police and an ambulance.”

“Sir, stay on the line. Do not enter the residence.”

From inside came a heavy crash.

Then a woman made a sound too weak to be called a cry.

Matteo ended the call.

Vincent’s message appeared.

Derek Walsh, 39. Two prior domestic assault complaints. One open warrant for failure to appear. Registered truck matches driveway. Want the cars moved in?

Hold three blocks out. Police and EMS are coming. If anyone else exits, follow. Do not enter unless I call.

Vincent’s answer took longer this time.

Understood.

Matteo crossed the street.

The porch steps creaked under his weight. Through the opening beside the door, he smelled stale beer, cigarette smoke and something metallic.

Blood.

He drew the pistol but held it low beside his leg.

“Emma,” Derek shouted from deeper in the house. “You think you can hide from me?”

The words slurred at the edges. Drunk, Matteo thought. Angry. Mobile.

“I saw you take that phone. When I find you, you’re going to wish you’d minded your own business.”

Matteo eased the door wider with two gloved fingers.

The living room looked as if a storm had formed inside it. A lamp lay shattered beside the wall. Sofa cushions had been thrown across the floor. Family photographs were scattered among broken glass, several ripped through the middle.

One frame had landed faceup near Matteo’s shoe.

Sarah stood in the photograph beside a smiling man, both of them holding a younger Emma between them at a beach. The girl was laughing so hard her eyes had closed.

The real Sarah lay six feet away.

She was crumpled beside the coffee table, one arm beneath her body. Blond hair covered part of her face and clung darkly to the blood near her temple.

Matteo holstered his weapon and crossed to her.

“Sarah.”

No response.

He knelt, careful not to move her neck, and pressed two fingers to the side of her throat. Her pulse was there—weak but steady. Her breathing was shallow. A bruise was already darkening along her jaw.

Rage moved through him with perfect, terrible clarity.

He had spent decades teaching anger to obey him. Tonight it wanted a name, a face and permission.

He gave it none of those things yet.

He called Dr. Chen and set the phone beside Sarah on speaker.

Elizabeth answered at once. “What do you see?”

“Female, thirty-three. Unconscious. Breathing shallow but regular. Pulse present. Head wound at the right temple. Bruising on the face. I haven’t moved her.”

“Good. Don’t. Is EMS coming?”

“Yes.”

“Watch her breathing. If she vomits, roll her carefully as one unit. Otherwise, leave her where she is. Control external bleeding with light pressure around the wound, not directly over anything that feels depressed.”

Matteo took a clean dish towel from a laundry basket on the sofa and folded it beside Sarah’s temple.

Floorboards creaked above him.

“I have to go.”

“Matteo, wait for the police.”

“There’s a child upstairs.”

“And an armed man between you and her.”

“Then he’s the one who should wait for the police.”

He ended the call.

Sarah’s fingers twitched against the floor.

Matteo leaned closer. “Sarah, can you hear me?”

Her lips moved.

He lowered his ear toward her mouth.

“Emma,” she breathed.

“I’m going to get her.”

Sarah did not open her eyes, but her hand closed weakly around his sleeve.

“Don’t let him…”

The sentence dissolved into a pained breath.

Matteo covered her hand with his. “He won’t touch her.”

It was not comfort. It was a fact he intended to create.

He rose and surveyed the room before moving. A broken beer bottle lay near the stairs. Blood marked the sharp edge, but Sarah’s head wound looked blunt. The corner of the coffee table carried a wet red smear. Whatever story Derek planned to tell, the room had already begun contradicting him.

Matteo photographed the bottle, the table, Sarah’s position and the damaged room. Each image uploaded automatically to a secure server Vincent controlled.

Then he texted Emma.

I’m inside. Your mom is alive. Help is coming.

The reply arrived almost at once.

Are you Matt?

Yes. Don’t come out yet.

Heavy footsteps crossed the upstairs landing.

Matteo slipped the phone into his pocket and drew his weapon again.

“I know you’re in your mother’s room,” Derek called. “You made this worse, Emma. You always make everything worse.”

Matteo placed one foot on the first stair.

The sirens were distant, still several streets away. Too far to matter.

A door slammed upstairs.

Matteo climbed without sound, staying close to the wall. On the landing, a strip of yellow light stretched from an open bedroom. At the far end of the hall, Derek’s shadow moved across it.

Another bedroom door shook under a violent impact.

Once.

Twice.

Wood split around the lock.

Then Emma screamed.