In my pocket, the dispatcher had gone completely silent.
Listening.
“You tried to pull her out of a wrecked car,” I said.
“She was screaming.”
“She was screaming your name.”
“She was scared,” he said.
“Kids get scared.”
“She’ll get used to me.”
Something moved in the dusty window.
A small face.
A pink cast pressed against the glass.
Ruby.
Dale saw her.
His whole face changed.
Softened.
That was worse than the smile.
“Hey, Rubes,” he called.
Gentle.
Sweet.
Like a dad at a bus stop.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“It’s Daddy.”
“Your real one.”
Ruby screamed.
One high, thin scream.
Then the face vanished from the window.
I heard Jason inside.
Low and steady.
“I’ve got you.”
“I’ve got you.”
Dale turned back to me.
The softness was gone.
“See?” he said.
“She knows me.”
“I wrote her letters, Hannah.”
“Every month for seven years.”
“You never gave her one.”
“I burned them,” I said.
“Every one.”
“Unopened.”
His jaw went tight.
He took a step forward.
I didn’t move.
“Get out of the way, Hannah.”
“No.”
“I’m her father.”
“You’re the man who broke my arm while I was holding her.”
His smile went away.
All at once.
Like a switch.
“Move,” he said.
“No.”
He came fast.
Faster than I remembered.
His hand closed around my wrist.
The same wrist.
The same grip.
Nine years collapsed into one second.
He yanked me sideways.
I went down into the mud.
He stepped over me toward the corner of the shed.
Toward the back door.
Toward my daughter.
And Scout hit him.
Eighty pounds of red dog.
Straight into his chest.
Dale went over backward into the rotten apples.
Scout stood on him.
Snarling.
Teeth an inch from his face.
Hackles up like a wire brush.
Dale froze.
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Dale grabbed a fistful of rotten apples and smashed them into Scout’s face.
Scout yelped.
He jerked back.
That was all Dale needed.
He rolled.
He was up.
He was running.
Not at me.
At the back door.
I scrambled up after him.
Barefoot.
Slipping in the mud.
