A weary-looking woman in her early 30s answered the door.
“Mrs. Whitman? I’m Officer Wyatt. We received a 911 call from this address.”
Confusion crossed her face.
“A call? That must be a mistake. It’s just me and my daughter. I’ve been home for the last hour.”
“May I come in, just to make sure everything’s okay?”
She hesitated — then stepped aside.
The house was small but tidy. Children’s drawings covered the walls. Bills were stacked neatly on the table. A work schedule was taped to the refrigerator.
“Is your daughter home?” Daniel asked.
“Yes. Nora’s in her room. She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”
Just then, a small girl appeared in the hallway.
Nora Whitman, six years old.
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