Every single morning for the last ninety days, Daniel had woken up, kissed my forehead, put on his tailored grey suit, grabbed his leather briefcase, and backed that black SUV out of our driveway. He kissed us goodbye that morning, promising to be home for dinner. He didn’t tell me his commute would involve running down our daughter and abandoning his car. I thought I was married to a family man; I didn’t know I was sleeping next to a fugitive.
Where had he been going? What had he been doing? And why, dear God why, did his car violently strike our daughter and leave her bleeding in the street?
I turned my head and looked through the large glass window into the ICU room. Emma was still sleeping deeply, her chest rising and falling in a steady, medically induced rhythm.
Thirty seconds ago, my absolute, paralyzing fear was that my daughter might not wake up.
My fear now, twisting like a cold knife in my gut, was that she would wake up, and she would be able to tell me exactly who was sitting behind the wheel.
The cell phone in my pocket vibrated violently against my hip. I jumped. I pulled it out.
1 New Text Message: Daniel.
“Sarah, I just got your voicemails. I was in a massive client meeting all afternoon, my phone was off. I’m so sorry! I heard Emma was in an accident. I’m running through the hospital lobby right now. I’m coming up to the ICU.”
Detective Miller, noticing the absolute, stark terror that had just washed over my face, stepped closer. He saw my hand trembling uncontrollably as I gripped the phone. His hand casually, instinctually rested on the butt of the firearm holstered at his hip.
“Is he here?” Miller asked quietly.
