Chapter 6 - The Emergency Call
Inside 412 Sycamore Crest Lane, the dial tone had barely cleared before the emergency dispatcher answered.
"Anderson County 911, what is your emergency?"
Diane Vance did not raise her voice. She did not hyperventilate. Her voice was a masterclass in controlled, terror-stricken piety—the voice of a frail woman facing mortal peril on her own threshold.
"Please... please send help," Diane whispered, leaning back slightly behind the floral drape so only her eyes peered over the sill. "My name is Diane Vance. 412 Sycamore Crest Lane."
"Ma'am, what is happening at your residence?"
"It's my daughter," Diane said, her breath catching with an audible, trembling catch. "Emily. She... she escaped. She wasn't supposed to be paroled for another three years. She's outside right now in Harold Greer's truck. Harold must have picked her up... oh dear Lord, she must have threatened him. She's dangerous. She told me before she went away that she would burn this house down if I didn't give her the deed."
"Ma'am, do you know for certain she escaped custody?"
"Yes! Yes, she sent letters... threatening letters from the facility. I had to turn them all away, I was so frightened! Please, officers, she's unstable. Send someone before she hurts poor Harold!"
"Units are en route, Mrs. Vance. Stay inside, lock your doors, and do not approach the vehicle."
Diane pressed the button, ending the call.
Her hands were completely steady. She did not shake. She set the phone down on the lace doily covering the mahogany telephone table, walked to the front door, turned the deadbolt with a crisp, heavy *clack*, and fastened the security chain.
She stood in the foyer, her chest rising and falling.
She had seen the outline of the passenger through the windshield. She had recognized the sharp jawline, the posture, the broad shoulders that had always reminded her too much of her dead husband’s stubborn blood.
*She wasn't supposed to come back,* Diane thought, her pulse thrumming with cold, venomous clarity. *She was supposed to stay gone. She was supposed to get married to some common soldier in North Carolina, or stay overseas, or disappear.*
If Emily walked through that front door, the narrative died.
If Emily spoke to Mrs. Gable, the casserole dishes would stop coming. The deacon board would demand an audit of the four thousand dollars given to Diane for "legal representation fees." The ladies of the Missionary Circle would look at her not with reverent pity, but with pure, unadulterated disgust.
Diane couldn't allow that.
She would let the police drag Emily away in cuffs. Even if the police discovered Emily wasn't a convict, by the time they sorted out the paperwork at the station, Diane would have already told the neighbors that Emily had suffered a psychotic break, bought a costume, and terrorized her elderly mother.
A lie, Diane knew, only failed if you blinked. And Diane Vance had never blinked in her entire life.
Out on the street, Harold turned to me.
"She thinks she's got us cornered," he said.
"We need to leave, Mr. Greer," I said, a wave of familiar, childhood nausea rolling through my gut. "If she's telling people I'm dangerous, the police are going to pull their weapons. You don't understand what she's capable of—"
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"No, Emily," Harold said, his voice dropping into a register of iron calm. "You don't understand what *I'm* capable of. Sit tight. The cavalry's already rolling."
***
