On Thursday, she did the same routine.
“Bye, Mom!” she called, bright and quick.
“Bye, honey,” I said, waving from the kitchen window like always. Then I grabbed my coat, slipped out the back door, and followed her at a distance that made me feel sick.
She walked the usual route past the bakery. The smell of sugar drifted out every time the door opened.
Emma didn’t even glance at it.
At the corner where she normally turned toward the studio, she walked straight past. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t hesitate.
“Emma,” I whispered, even though she couldn’t hear me.
She headed toward the park.
The park wasn’t huge, but it had enough trees to hide in.
Emma left the main path and slipped behind a thick trunk near the back, where low branches drooped like curtains.
I stopped behind another tree, heart hammering. From where I stood, I could see her backpack and the movement of her hands. Then she pulled out her lunchbox and set it on the ground.
She spoke in a voice I barely recognized.
“I brought more today,” she said. “I got the good turkey.”
A second voice answered, older and impatient. “You’re late.”
Emma’s shoulders stiffened.
“I’m not late. I just… my mom watches me now.”
I leaned to the side to see around the trunk.
That was when I saw the carrier.
