Chapter 3The Police Director Regrets Disowning His Hero Daughter

Phoebe's face was deathly pale with terror, and her tears flowed uncontrollably, like a broken faucet.

“Mr. Wallace, please don't leave me.”

Something must have clicked in her mind. Her trembling hands started to unbutton her t-shirt.

“Phoebe can take her clothes off and earn money. Just please don't leave me.”

Dad’s body seized up. His face turned ashen as he quickly stopped her.

“She actually made you… made you go out and do that for money… How could she turn out this way? She swore she would become a hero, just like me.”

But Dad’s weakness lasted only a moment, so fast that the tear in his eye seemed like a trick of the light. He called Miller.

“Issue an immediate warrant for Sloane Wallace. Move fast. I’m going to personally bring her in.”

He did, however, bring Phoebe home. I looked at the familiar front door and the familiar, yet strangely distant, sight of my mother, Eleanor. My soul trembled with pain.

Mom had aged so much. She used to meticulously fix her hair, never letting a strand be out of place. Now, she looked frail, like an old woman.

Yet, despite her pale face, she gently wiped a tear from Phoebe’s cheek the moment she saw it.

“What’s your name, sweetie? Why are you so hurt? Did someone bad hurt you?”

Phoebe numbly rubbed her face against Mom’s hand and whispered.

“I know you… You’re Sloane’s Mom.”

On many unbearable nights, I would hold the equally distraught Phoebe and softly hum a song to soothe her.

Phoebe would quiet down, dependent, and ask me.

“Sloane, what is that? It’s so pretty.”

I told her it was a lullaby, the song my mother loved to sing to me.

Mom was the person who loved me most in the world, the one who would feel guilt if I was hurt and who would try her hardest to give me everything I ever wanted.

Phoebe didn’t know what a mother or daughter was. After all, in that black house, we were all just called "livestock."

“When you meet my mom, you’ll understand.”

The instant Phoebe pressed against Mom, she suddenly relaxed like a lost cub finding its den. She threw herself into Mom’s embrace, sobbing.

“Sloane, I know what a mother is now.”

Mom went completely rigid. She looked at Dad in disbelief. Dad lowered his head, his voice strained.

“Sloane sent her to me. She’s her daughter.”

My usually forgiving mother suddenly shoved Phoebe away. A hint of disgust and an unspeakable pain twisted her eyebrows.

“She… How dare she? Is she back to see if I’m dead yet?”

Mom’s voice trembled as she spoke wildly to the confused Phoebe.

“Do I owe her something? She stole my life-saving money for men!”

“For seven years, she never called, not even when your father was stabbed and bleeding out in the street, waiting to die! She abandoned her own child! Sloane Wallace, it took me seven years to see her wicked nature. I should never have given birth to her!”

I knelt before Mom, repeatedly whispering, I’m sorry. Phoebe stood there, clutching the backpack and apologizing, too. Our voices overlapped, as if I was voicing through Phoebe the repentance I never got to speak seven years ago.

Dad worriedly rubbed Mom’s chest to help her breathe. Yet, despite their hatred and resentment, they didn’t abandon Phoebe on the doorstep. Mom instead took Phoebe to the bathroom to clean her wounds.

The moment she removed Phoebe’s shirt, the coldness in Mom’s eyes dissolved into shock and heart-wrenching pity. Her trembling hand touched Phoebe. The small child had almost no unscarred skin; she was covered in lacerations.

“Did Sloane do this?”

Her voice was laced with towering rage. Phoebe slowly shook her head.

“Sloane protected me.”

Mom clearly didn’t believe her, but no matter how angry she was, her hands became even gentler. Then she reached for Phoebe’s dirty backpack, and Phoebe suddenly shrieked.

“Don’t touch it! Only Mr. Wallace can touch this backpack!”

Phoebe struggled violently, splashing Mom with warm water. Mom quickly soothed her, gently coaxing her.

“Phoebe, it’s okay. I won’t touch the backpack. You want to give it to Mr. Wallace, right? He’s right outside the door. You can give it to him yourself.”

Dad, who had been listening anxiously outside, watched as Phoebe pleaded and handed him the backpack. He finally took it.

“Mr. Wallace, if you open this, my sisters can all come out of the black house.”

Because it was wet, the first thing that happened when Dad touched the bag was a pool of blood seeping onto his palm.

He frowned uneasily, exchanging a worried glance with Mom. The apprehension in their eyes deepened.

Dad’s hand trembled as he pulled open the zipper. A piece of decaying human skin fell out. It had a reddish, butterfly-shaped birthmark. I had that exact mark on my chest.

Mom gasped, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow. The phone rang at that moment.

Dad mechanically answered the call. It was Miller’s grim voice.

“We’ve got a lock on Sloane’s last location. It’s the warehouse where the main suspect from the massive missing persons case seven years ago last vanished.”