Three blocks from the house on Evergreen Lane, Sheriff Carmichael lazily cranked the steering wheel and brought the cruiser in a wide arc around the corner. He and Constance had been riding in silence for the small handful of minutes it had taken to traverse the distance.
As he straightened the vehicle, the headlights fell in a bright swath across a tiny figure standing motionless in the middle of the street. He slowed, coming to a halt several yards in front of the little girl.
After cranking the shift lever into park, he flipped on his light bar, popped the trunk, and looked over at Constance.
“This is exactly when and where I found her in nineteen seventy-five,” he said.
“What's happening here?” she whispered.
“I've been hopin' for eight years now that someone could tell me,” he replied, then said, “You can get out if you want, but don't go near her. I'm serious.”
With that, he climbed out of the vehicle and walked around to the back where he dug out a blanket. Mandalay stood next to the front of the cruiser, watching as Sheriff Carmichael knelt down in the street and wrapped the blanket around the little girl, then picked her up and carried her back toward the car.
“It's okay, Merrie,” he was whispering, voice cracking with emotion as he trundled toward the back door of the cruiser. “You're safe now, sweetheart. You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore...”