“Oh, crap, you’re involved...”

 “She needed someone...”

 “Emma, you are at least on probation!”

 So Emma called the police. Once they established that there was no missing person, no cry for help, no family member seeking a welfare check, they said they’d send a patrol by when they could.

 She dialed another number.

 “Logan Danner,” he said in answer to her call.

 “Logan, it’s Emma. Listen, I have a situation. I’ve been talking to a fifteen-year-old girl from one of the houses I clean. She’s troubled. She’s maybe suicidal. I might be suicidal in her situation. It’s complicated, it’s—”

 “Bethany Christensen?” he asked.

 “How did you know?” she asked.

 “I listened to your telephone conversations,” he said. “We were a little confused about that one but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the transfer of funds.”

 “I’m at her house. She left me a suspicious text—it’s all too much, she said. She said she’s had enough. And the doors are bolted from the inside.”

 “Did you call the police?”

 “They weren’t impressed. I’m calling to tell you to get out your handcuffs because I’ve decided to break in. I really want to be wrong...but I’m going to break in...”

 “Can you wait for me? I’m not far away.”

 “I can’t wait for you. I’m sorry, but I can’t let anything terrible happen. Her parents aren’t returning calls, no one cares about this girl. No one.” She hung up the phone.

 I am clearly insane, Emma thought. I don’t know that much about her but I’m completely involved, totally sympathetic, terribly scared for her.

 There was a workbench in the garage that, like the rest of the Christensen home, was far too clean and tidy. She eyed a hammer, a big screwdriver, a crowbar. She took the crowbar and wedged it into the tight space right where the doorknob was and started prying with all her might. She was at it for a good five minutes when she heard a car pull into the drive. She looked over her shoulder. Shawna and Dellie were standing in the driveway behind her, staring in wonder. Logan strode toward her.

 “Give me that,” he said. “If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”

 “Thank you,” she said, rubbing her upper arm.

 It took him three powerful tugs with the crowbar, some splintering wood and a great big kick and the door opened. Logan was inside first. “Bethany!” he shouted.

 “Look through the downstairs,” Emma said. “I’ll check the upstairs bedrooms.”

 Their feet pounded through the house, each of them shouting the girl’s name. Emma went immediately to Bethany’s bedroom and found the room undisturbed, the bed made as usual. She checked her bathroom—it was spotless. She called out, checked the master bedroom—again, everything in order. The master bath was clean as a whistle and she thought, I’ve made a terrible mistake...again!

 She heard a soft moan and opened the door to the large, walk-in closet and there, in a little pile on the floor was Bethany, covered in blood. “Logan!” she screamed. “Up here! Help me!”

 She rolled Bethany to the side and it seemed the blood was coming from her thin, pale wrists. “Oh, God, Bethany! No!” She put her fingers to Bethany’s neck and felt a faint pulse. “In here!” she shouted again.

 “Is she alive?” he asked.

 “Yes, but unconscious and her pulse is weak.”

 Before Emma even finished talking, Logan had grabbed a white shirt from a hanger, bit a tear in the hem and ripped it into a couple of strips. He tossed one to Emma. “Pressure,” he said, ripping the shirt again and again. “Nice and tight.”

 When that was done he got on his cell and called for paramedics.

 * * *

 Over the next fifteen minutes, the master bedroom began to fill with people. Emma and Logan stayed beside Bethany, Emma holding her gently, rocking her, telling her she must be all right, must. First Dellie and Shawna were there, watching. Then Makenna, followed quickly by Riley. Both of them were stunned and angry that this poor girl could have suffered so much and there seemed to be no one to help her. Finally paramedics arrived and by that time Bethany was moaning and whimpering weakly. After an IV was started and the gurney stood ready to take her to the ambulance, Olaf and Liz Christensen appeared. Liz gasped and covered her mouth while Olaf rushed to his daughter.

 As the paramedics transferred Bethany, Olaf Christensen faced Emma. “Who are you? And how did you know my daughter was in trouble?”

 “I clean your house, Mr. Christensen. And she reached out to me. I wanted her to reach out to you, but she didn’t think you could handle it. She’s been in a lot of pain since her mother passed away.”

 “But I got her a counselor!” Liz Christensen said.

 “Yes, and you also cleared out all the family pictures and started wearing her dead mother’s clothes. How you thought that was going to be okay, I’ll never know.”

 “I asked,” she said defensively, looking a bit confused. “I asked permission! From Bethany! And the pictures... I didn’t think that was helping us become a family!”

 Emma took out her phone and revealed the text. “Bethany lost her family. She told me when her mother was alive they laughed a lot, they hugged and laughed and fell asleep together. She told me your assistant bought her birthday and Christmas presents. She was so, so lonely.”

 Olaf Christensen read the text. “God,” he said. “I just wasn’t looking, was I? I don’t know how to thank you for finding her. I don’t know how you knew she would need you.”