Chapter 2 - THE NINE-ONE-ONE CALL
I did not scream. I did not hurl furniture. I did not lose my temper.
In my corporate life, when an absolute emergency occurs, panic is a luxury that costs lives. You freeze the floor. You assess the damage. You eliminate the threat.
I stepped across the threshold into the kitchen. My shoes made a clean, sharp sound against the greasy floorboards.
"Zayden?" Jessica choked out. Her lips trembled violently. She reached out with her burned hand to touch my arm, but pulled back, ashamed of the grease covering her skin. "You... you weren't supposed to be home until Saturday..."
I didn't answer her yet. I reached down, put my hands gently under Olivia’s armpits, and lifted her off the plastic stool.
She weighed almost nothing. Her little body was shaking so intensely I could feel her bones vibrating through her damp cotton shirt. I set her down gently on the dry island counter, took her tiny, scalded hands into mine, and looked at her fingers.
The skin across her palms was raw, dark pink, and blistering near the nails.
"Daddy’s here, Livvie," I said, my voice horrifyingly calm. "Daddy’s here. Step down."
I turned off the scalding tap water. I took a clean, dry hand towel from the drawer, soaked it under cold filtered water, and gently wrapped it around my daughter’s hands.
Then I turned around to face the kitchen doorway.
Carmen was standing there. She had walked over from the dining table, her glass of dark red wine still cradled in her hand. Her red dress stood out violently against the dirty kitchen backdrop. For a fraction of a second, when our eyes met, a flicker of genuine shock crossed her face—but it vanished instantly, replaced by her lifelong shield: aggressive arrogance.
"Zayden!" she declared, her voice unnaturally loud, trying to project authority to the women lingering behind her in the hallway. "You surprised us! You should have called ahead! We’re hosting the ladies from the ministry today!"
"Get out of the kitchen, Carmen," I said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you use that tone with me in front of company! I was just helping your wife learn how to manage a home proper—"
I reached into my front coat pocket, pulled out my iPhone, unlocked the screen, and dialed three numbers: 9 - 1 - 1.
I pressed the green speakerphone button.
The line rang twice. The crisp, digital voice of an emergency dispatcher echoed clearly through the kitchen and into the dead-silent living room.
"911, what is the location of your emergency?"
Carmen’s face drained of every ounce of color. The wine glass in her hand wobbled dangerously.
"Yes," I spoke clearly, my voice cold, precise, and devoid of tremor. "My name is Zayden Ferris. I am at 7420 North Central Avenue, Apartment 4B. I am requesting an immediate dispatch of emergency medical services and law enforcement."
"Sir, what is the nature of the emergency?" the dispatcher asked sharply.
"Child abuse, unlawful imprisonment, and felony domestic violence," I stated flatly, looking directly into my mother's wide, horrified eyes. "My five-year-old daughter and my wife have been subjected to forced labor and sustained second-degree burns on their hands. The perpetrator is currently inside the residence."
"Zayden! Are you insane?!" Carmen shrieked, taking a step toward me, reaching her arm out to snatch the phone from my hand. "Hang that up right now! What is wrong with you?! I am your mother!"
I casually stepped back, putting my shoulder in front of my daughter.
"Sir, stay on the line," the dispatcher urged. "Police units and paramedics are en route to your location. Is the suspect armed?"
"She is not armed with a gun," I answered into the phone. "She is surrounded by eighteen guests who are complicit in the abuse. Send multiple units to clear the premises."
"Units dispatched. Hold your position."
Behind Carmen, the living room blew up into utter chaos.
"Oh my Lord! The police?!" a woman yelled.
"Carmen, what did you get us into?!" another shouted.
The sound of chairs scraping frantically against the hardwood floors reverberated through the hall as eighteen middle-aged women suddenly scrambled to gather their purses, jackets, and shoes, desperate to escape before red lights started flashing in the parking lot below.
"Get out! All of you, get out!" Carmen screamed back toward the living room, her voice cracking in panic. She turned back to me, her eyes wild, her red dress rustling as her chest heaved. "You're calling the police on your own mother over some dirty dishes?! Over a little discipline?! I raised you! I suffered for you!"
"You didn't raise me, Carmen," I said, my voice dropping an octave into a dark whisper. "You used me. And today, your usage expires."
Jessica was weeping softly now, holding Olivia against her chest on the counter, cradling the cold towel against our daughter’s hands.
Olivia buried her face into Jessica’s neck, shivering.
May you like
Then, through her small, choked sobs, Olivia pulled her face back slightly, looked up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, and pointed her tiny, bandaged finger toward the back hallway that led to Carmen’s master bedroom.
"Daddy..." Olivia whispered, her voice cutting through the panic in the apartment. "Don't let Grandma take the black box from the locked drawer."
