Dad, Please Come Get Me

Margaret Prescott met him at the front entrance as if she had been expecting an inconvenience, not an emergency.

She stood beneath the portico in a pale lavender dress, holding a glass of sparkling wine. Behind her, through the tall windows, Daniel could see pastel Easter decorations, flowers, and guests moving in soft colors around a house that looked too clean to contain suffering.

“Colonel Mercer,” she said, though she had never once used his title without making it sound like an antique. “Emma had another hysterical episode.”

Daniel kept walking.

Margaret shifted in front of him.

“She’s resting now. Go back to your little house and don’t come over here making a scene.”

He looked at her hand when she placed it against his chest.

It was manicured. Diamond bracelet. No tremor.

“You’re not the one in charge here,” she said.

Daniel removed her hand gently.

Not roughly.

Not because she deserved gentleness.

Because Emma might need every second uncontaminated by anyone else’s drama.

He opened the door.

The Prescott living room was bright with spring light. Easter eggs had spilled from a woven basket near the coffee table. White flowers stood on every surface. A wine glass lay tilted beside embroidered napkins. The television was muted, showing smiling families in pastel clothing. The room smelled like lilies, lamb, perfume, and something metallic under all of it that made Daniel’s stomach turn.

Emma lay on the white rug.

For half a breath, his mind refused to accept the shape of her there.

His daughter, early thirties now but still the child who once slept with her hand around his thumb, was curled on her side, barely moving. Her face was swollen. One eye was nearly closed. Her cream sweater was stretched at the collar as if someone had grabbed it. Her breathing came shallow and uneven.

Daniel dropped to his knees beside her.

“Emma.”

Her lips moved.

No sound came out.

He checked her pulse with fingers that had steadied dying men and never hated himself more than in that moment.

A few steps away, Andrew Prescott calmly adjusted his watch.

“She fell,” Andrew said.

His voice was smooth enough for donors, investors, judges, and anyone else who preferred lies in expensive clothing.

Daniel looked at him.

Then at the bruising around Emma’s neck.

“So she grabbed her own throat while she was falling?”

Andrew’s jaw tightened.

Margaret entered behind Daniel and sighed at the rug.

“What a disaster,” she said. “That rug cost more than your pickup truck.”

Something inside Daniel became very quiet.

Not calmer.

Worse.

He leaned close to Emma.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

Her fingers twitched against the rug.

For one second, Daniel saw her at eight years old, standing on his boots in the garage while he taught her how to dance because Caroline was too sick to stand.

Then the present returned.

He slid one arm beneath his daughter’s shoulders, the other beneath her knees, and lifted her carefully.

Andrew laughed.

“Do whatever you want, Mr. Daniel. The sheriff plays golf with my father. Two prosecutors were at brunch here last month. Judge Bellamy is practically family.”

Daniel carried Emma toward the door.

Andrew followed him with that same smile.

“Nobody’s going to touch me.”

Daniel did not answer.