Chapter 7 - The Alley Behind 4th Street
The alley behind 4th Street was a narrow, icy chasm bounded by rusted fire escapes and crumbling red brick walls.
The industrial dumpster where the stranger had found my daughters sat wedged between a bakery loading dock and the back entrance of my mother’s old shop.
I parked at the alley mouth, pulling my heavy winter coat tight around my waist as I stepped into the snow.
The wind howled down the brick alleyway like a dying animal. The temperature was dropping fast, dipping toward negative five degrees.
I walked down the narrow path, my eyes scanning the pristine white snow.
Near the base of the rusted green dumpster, the snow was heavily churned up—boot prints from the paramedics, tire tracks from the ambulance, and two clear indentations where my daughters had sat huddled together behind the steel container to break the wind.
I dropped to my knees in the snow beside the dumpster, my gloved hands digging desperately through the frozen trash and drifts.
Why had Maisie come here?
Eight-year-old children don't walk six blocks through a sub-zero blizzard to a random alley. Maisie was meticulous, cautious, and terrifyingly smart. If she ran from that front porch, she was running to something.
My fingers brushed against something hard under the snow beneath the dumpster's rear wheel.
I pulled it out.
It was a small, plastic unicorn keychain—the one Mark had bought Ruby at the gas station three days ago. Attached to the silver ring was not a key, but a small, folded piece of paper wrapped tightly in clear packing tape to protect it from the wet snow.
Maisie had left it for me.
She knew I would look for them. She knew her mother would come.
My breath caught in my throat as I carefully peeled the frozen packing tape away with my fingernails, unfolding the small square of yellow lined paper.
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Written in shaky, blue crayon—Maisie's handwriting—were three short lines:
Grandma gave us the key. Dad's bad papers are in the red box. Look under the floor.
