“Thank God you kept it.”
“I need you to come here,” I said. “I need someone else to see the truck and hear what’s happening. Please contact people you trust at the sheriff’s office. Michael won’t listen to me. He’s not thinking clearly.”
“I’ll make the calls.”
“Harry—”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Don’t confront him. Don’t sign anything, and don’t tell him you reached me.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it, David. Stay inside. Let us handle this.”
The call ended.
I sat on the edge of the bed with the satellite phone in my hands.
Then I began to cry.
They were not tears of grief.
They were tears of relief.
Someone believed me.
Someone knew where I was.
For the first time that morning, I was no longer completely alone.
I moved to the window and carefully looked through the curtain. Michael remained in the cab of the concrete truck, watching the house.
