She nodded.
“He pulled her by the arm.
Mommy told me to hide in the pantry.
I heard the cellar door lock.”
The next sound on the phone was Dean moving through the house and calling Lily’s name in a falsely gentle voice.
“Come out, sweetheart.
Nobody’s angry.”
Lily began shaking.
Stone stopped the playback immediately.
“You don’t have to listen to any more of that,” he told her.
Outside, sirens grew louder.
Two patrol vehicles and an ambulance pulled into the gravel lot.
Stone carried the phone to the officers while paramedics examined Lily near the fireplace.
One of the bikers draped a clean blanket over her red coat.
Ryder sat several feet away, forcing his hands to remain open on his knees so the child would not see his anger.
The officers listened to the most important parts of the recording.
They photographed Lily’s bruises, confirmed that the audio was still running, and asked her simple questions without pressing her when she struggled.
When one officer asked whether Dean had a weapon, Lily hesitated.
“He keeps a hunting rifle in the bedroom closet,” she said.
“Mommy told me never to touch it.”
The mood changed instantly.
The officers radioed for additional support.
Stone gave them the phone and stepped back.
Lily reached for him.
“Are you going to help Mommy?”
“The police are going to her now.”
“Are you coming?”
Stone looked toward the lead officer.
The officer considered the frightened child, then told Stone he could follow at a distance but had to remain outside the property unless instructed otherwise.
Stone agreed without argument.
Four bikers stayed at the tavern with Lily and the paramedics.
Stone and Ryder followed the patrol vehicles in Stone’s pickup.
The other riders remained behind, despite how badly they wanted to go.
The white house appeared less than ten minutes later, crouched behind bare trees near the water tower.
A green mailbox leaned beside the road.
The broken wooden horse lay in weeds near the driveway.
Dean’s pickup was parked at an angle near the porch.
The front door opened before the officers reached it.
Dean stepped outside wearing jeans and an unbuttoned work shirt.
He was in his late thirties, clean-cut, broad through the chest, and skilled at arranging his face into an expression of concern.
“Thank God,” he said.
“My girlfriend’s daughter ran away.
We’ve been searching everywhere.”
He looked beyond the officers and saw Stone’s pickup.
For one second, the concern vanished.
“What are they doing here?” he demanded.
The lead officer asked where Lily’s mother was.
“Anna’s inside,” Dean replied.
“She’s upset.
She has episodes.”
“Bring her to the door.”
Dean sighed as though he were dealing with unreasonable people.
“She took something to calm down.
She’s sleeping.”
From somewhere beneath the house came a faint pounding.
Dean’s face went still.
