The battery had been stored separately to preserve its life.
Without hesitation, he slipped both into the pocket of his worn field jacket.
The oven continued cooking.
The coffee spread across the kitchen floor.
The front door slammed behind him.
Twenty minutes later, Richard turned into the gates of Belle Meade Estates, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods outside Nashville.
Children in pastel clothes laughed while hunting Easter eggs across perfectly trimmed lawns.
A string quartet played near a flower-covered gazebo.
Luxury SUVs lined both sides of the street.
Everything looked impossibly peaceful.
Richard entered the security code Emily had quietly given him months earlier.
She had laughed nervously when she wrote it down.
“Just… in case.”
He understood what she had meant now.
The Caldwell mansion stood at the end of a circular driveway surrounded by blooming dogwood trees.
The front door opened before Richard could knock.
Standing there was Victoria Caldwell, Ethan’s mother.
She wore an expensive cream-colored linen dress and held a crystal champagne flute.
Her expression suggested she was annoyed by an interruption, not worried about a family emergency.
“Oh,” she sighed dramatically.
“It’s you.”
“Where’s Emily?” Richard asked.
Victoria rolled her eyes.
“She’s having one of her episodes.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“Move.”
“Honestly, Colonel Hayes, she became hysterical again. Ethan is trying to calm her down.”
Richard stepped forward.
Victoria planted one manicured hand against his chest.
“This isn’t your house.”
“You don’t belong here.”
Without raising his voice, Richard gently removed her hand from his jacket.
He didn’t shove her.
He simply walked past her.
She stumbled backward anyway.
“You can’t just barge in here!”
He ignored her.
The house was decorated for Easter.
White lilies filled crystal vases.
Pastel ribbons wrapped around expensive centerpieces.
Silver serving trays overflowed with desserts.
Soft classical music drifted through hidden speakers.
It looked like the cover of a luxury magazine.
Then Richard saw his daughter.
Emily lay motionless on a white living room rug.
One side of her face was grotesquely swollen.
Her left eye had nearly swollen shut.
Blood matted the hair above her temple.
She struggled to breathe.
Richard crossed the room in seconds.
He dropped to one knee.
Military instincts he’d relied upon for decades returned instantly.
Airway.
Breathing.
Pulse.
Her pulse was weak.
As he gently lifted her chin, he noticed dark red fingerprints wrapped around her neck.
Not bruises from falling.
Marks left by someone’s hands.