Two officers arrived shortly afterward.
They listened carefully, then suggested visiting my father’s house immediately to make sure no other child was in danger.
Oliver stayed safely at school with another teacher.
I drove behind the police car, trembling so badly I could barely hold the steering wheel.
When we reached the house, I noticed my father’s car in the driveway.
One officer knocked on the front door.
No answer.
We knocked again.
Then I heard something from inside.
A faint voice.
My father’s voice.
“Just a little longer, sweetheart. Hold still.”
My blood ran cold.
The officers exchanged glances.
I remembered that my father kept a spare key beneath a flowerpot beside the porch.
I handed it to them.
We entered quietly.
The living room was empty.
Then came another sound from the hallway.
A strange, rhythmic tapping.
Followed by my father’s voice:
“Please, don’t move your hands yet.”