Chapter 1 - THE CALL THAT STOPPED MY HEART1
My four-year-old son called me at work, crying: “Dad, Mom’s boyfriend hit me with a baseball bat.” I was 20 minutes away… so I called the only person who could get there faster.
My phone had buzzed twice against the conference-room table.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and dry marker ink, and I was trying to keep my eyes on a budget projection when I finally glanced down.
NOAH.
My four-year-old son.
Noah almost never called me himself.
He had a little emergency phone I had programmed with three large buttons—Dad, Mom, Uncle Derek—but he mostly treated it like a toy. He liked taking pictures of his dinosaur figures and sending me blurry images that usually included half his thumb.
The first missed call bothered me.
The second terrified me.
I stood without explaining myself and stepped toward the conference-room door as I answered.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
For a second, nothing came back except breathing.
Broken.
Wet.
Scared.
Then Noah whispered.
“Dad… please come home.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s not here.”
I stopped walking.
“What do you mean she’s not there?”
“She went away.”
“With who?”
No answer.
“Noah?”
“My arm hurts.”
Something inside me turned cold.
“What happened to your arm?”
His next words came so quietly that I almost convinced myself I had misunderstood them.
“Mom’s boyfriend hit me with a baseball bat.”
The hallway disappeared around me.
“What?”
“Travis hit me.”
Noah began crying harder.
“He said I was bad. He hit me with the bat and my arm hurts really bad. He said if I cry, he’ll hit me again.”
I slammed my free hand against the wall to steady myself.
“Noah, listen to me. Go somewhere you can lock a door.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“He took the locks off.”
My stomach dropped.
Then I heard something in the background.
Footsteps.
Heavy, quick footsteps.
Noah sucked in a frightened breath.
A grown man shouted.
“Who are you talking to?”
Noah whimpered.
“Dad—”
“Give me the phone!”
The connection ended.
I stared at the screen.
Thirty-one seconds.
That was all.
Thirty-one seconds between the moment I answered and the moment some man inside my house realized my son had reached me.
I turned.
The conference room had gone silent.
My coworkers were watching through the glass wall. One woman from accounting stood with a paper coffee cup frozen halfway to her mouth.
“My son has been attacked,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
My boss opened his mouth.
I never heard what he said.
I was already moving.
I nearly dropped my keys twice while running toward the elevator. My thoughts came too fast to organize.
Lena.
Travis.
Baseball bat.
No locks.
Where was Lena?
And why was Travis alone in my house with my son?
Lena and I had separated eight months earlier, but the custody arrangement was temporary and complicated. Noah stayed primarily with me because I owned the house and his preschool was nearby. Lena had him several afternoons a week while I worked.
Travis Mercer entered the picture three months after we separated.
At least, that was when Lena admitted he existed.
Thirty-four years old.
Former contractor.
Always too friendly around me.
He had shaken my hand the first time we met and held it a second longer than necessary.
“Don’t worry,” he’d said. “I know I’m not Noah’s father.”
Something about the sentence bothered me.
I hadn’t asked.
Now I understood why.
The elevator doors opened.
I ran through the lobby.
Twenty minutes.
That was the problem.
My office was downtown.
The house was across the river in Brookfield.
At two in the afternoon, twenty minutes was optimistic.
Red lights.
Construction.
School traffic beginning to build.
Twenty minutes might become thirty.
My son had already been hit once.
Travis had threatened to do it again.
I couldn’t get there fast enough.
But someone else could.
My older brother Derek.
I called him while sprinting through the parking garage.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I just got a call from Noah.”
Something in my voice made Derek immediately serious.
“What happened?”
“He said Travis hit him with a baseball bat.”
Silence.
Then Derek said, “Where?”
“At my house. Lena isn’t there. Travis is alone with him.”
“Where are you?”
“Downtown. Twenty minutes away. Maybe more.”
“I’m near Madison.”
That put Derek roughly fifteen minutes from my neighborhood.
“Go,” I said.
“I’m moving.”
“I’m calling 911.”
“Do it.”
Derek had once fought mixed martial arts regionally. Years earlier, before a shoulder injury ended that part of his life, he had been good enough that strangers sometimes recognized him at gyms.
But Derek’s fighting background wasn’t what reassured me.
It was his restraint.
He had spent years teaching teenagers boxing at a community center afterward, and I had watched angry young men insult him, shove him, challenge him.
Derek almost never raised his voice.
He knew the difference between force and control.
More importantly, Noah loved him.
Derek had been there the day we brought Noah home from the hospital.
He taught him fist bumps.
Fixed his bicycle when a training wheel bent.
Stayed beside his bed during a fever when Lena and I were both exhausted.
If Noah heard Derek’s voice, he would know help had arrived.
I called 911.
The dispatcher asked questions with maddening calm.
Address.
Child’s name.
Age.
Possible injuries.
Weapon.
Suspect.
“Baseball bat,” I said. “My son specifically said baseball bat.”
“Is the suspect still inside?”
“I believe so.”
“Where is the child’s mother?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer sounded terrible even to me.
I explained that we were separated. That Lena had been supposed to stay with Noah until I returned. That Travis was not authorized to be alone with him.
Units were being dispatched.
Then I told the dispatcher Derek was closer.
“Tell him not to engage unless necessary.”
I called Derek immediately.
“Police are coming. Don’t go looking for a fight.”
“I’m not going for Travis.”
His engine accelerated.
“I’m going for Noah.”
Traffic trapped me behind a bus.
I hit the steering wheel.
“Move!”
Derek remained on speaker.
For several minutes all I heard was road noise.
Then:
“I’m two blocks out.”
“Stay on the line.”
“I am.”
I turned onto the bridge.
Derek’s turn signal clicked through the phone.
Then his engine slowed.
“I see the house.”
My breathing changed.
“What do you see?”
“Your SUV’s there.”
“That’s normal.”
“Lena’s car isn’t.”
My grip tightened.
“Travis?”
“Black pickup in the driveway.”
I knew the truck.
Travis drove it everywhere.
“Anyone outside?”
“No.”
Derek parked.
His truck door slammed.
His footsteps moved quickly over pavement.
Then he stopped.
“Front door’s open.”
A chill crawled over my skin.
“Open how?”
“Wide open.”
“Can you see Noah?”
“No.”
Then both of us heard it.
A child crying.
Faint.
Inside.
Derek’s breathing changed.
“That’s him.”
“Derek—”
Another voice came through the phone.
Travis.
Loud.
Angry.
“Get back in that room.”
Derek climbed the porch steps.
“Travis!” he called. “Step away from Noah.”
Silence.
Then Noah screamed.
“UNCLE DEREK!”
Something hard struck the floor.
I heard Derek move.
“Derek!”
No answer.
His footsteps crossed the threshold.
Through his phone came several sounds almost at once.
A chair scraping.
Travis shouting.
Noah crying.
Then Derek said something I will remember for the rest of my life.
Not loudly.
Not angrily.
Just firmly.
“Put the bat down.”
Travis answered.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“That kid is my nephew.”
“You don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Put it down.”
Then Noah shrieked.
There was a heavy crash.
My brother grunted.
The phone skidded across something hard.
“Derek!”
For three horrible seconds, all I heard was movement.
Then another crash.
A man gasped.
Something metallic rolled across the floor.
And Derek said, “Noah, come to me.”
The crying grew louder.
Closer.
“I got you,” Derek whispered.
Then his voice changed.
“What the hell happened to your arm?”
I nearly drove through a red light.
“Is he okay?”
Derek picked up the phone.
“He’s conscious.”
“Is it broken?”
“Probably.”
I felt sick.
“Where’s Travis?”
Derek hesitated.
“On the floor.”
“Did you—”
“He swung the bat.”
That was all Derek said.
Then, behind him, a new sound appeared.
A low electronic beep.
Derek went quiet.
“What is that?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
Another beep.
Then Derek said, “There’s a camera.”
“What?”
“In your living room.”
“I don’t have a camera in my living room.”
“I know.”
The traffic light changed.
I accelerated.
Derek’s voice became distant as if he were walking.
“There’s another one.”
“Another what?”
“Camera.”
My pulse climbed again.
“Where?”
“Inside the smoke detector.”
He stopped.
Then I heard a door creak.
“Derek, stay with Noah.”
“He’s with me.”
“What are you doing?”
“There’s something weird here.”
“Police are coming.”
“I know.”
The door opened farther.
Derek inhaled sharply.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
“What do you see?”
His next sentence made the attack with the baseball bat suddenly feel like only the first layer of something much worse.
“Evan,” he said, “your basement door has a lock on the outside.”
I stared through my windshield.
My basement door had never had a lock.
Not once.
May you like
And before I could respond, Derek whispered:
“There’s someone downstairs.”
