Chapter 4 - THE SECOND MORNING
The next morning, Dawson woke up at 6:00 a.m. to the clean, mechanical sound of his alarm.
He went through his routine with robotic precision. Coffee. Shower. Navy suit. Silver cuff links. Black Audi. But as he stood in front of his bathroom mirror tying his silk tie, he noticed a hesitation in his movements. His eyes flicked to the clock.
7:10 a.m.
"No," he said aloud to his reflection. "Absolutely not."
He grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door. He took the expressway. He didn't look at his phone. He didn't turn down the side street. He drove straight to his underground parking garage, took the private elevator up to his office, and sat down at his desk by 8:00 a.m.
The morning dragged.
Arthur Vance popped his head into Dawson's office around 10:30. "Good. You're on time today. The district court judge just scheduled an early hearing for Thursday. We need to finalize the brief by tomorrow afternoon."
"It'll be ready," Dawson replied without looking up from his monitor.
"Good. Oh, and by the way, your car was spotted on Elm Street yesterday morning by municipal traffic cams. Taking the scenic route, counselor?" Vance smirked.
Dawson’s fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up, his expression cooling into an icy mask. "I took a detour. People do that, Arthur."
"Right. Sure." Vance chuckled and walked away.
By 3:00 p.m., Dawson’s focus had completely evaporated. The lines of text on his screen blurred into meaningless black ribbons. He found himself thinking about the patched backpack, the cold little fingers, and the way Maisie had looked when she whispered, You don't have to talk if you don't want to.
By 5:30 p.m., he couldn't take it anymore.
He shut his laptop with a sharp snap, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office without a word to anyone.
This time, he didn't fight it. He drove straight to Elm Street.
He parked his Audi in the exact same spot across from the public elementary school. The afternoon dismissal bell had already rung, and the sidewalk was mostly empty, save for a few stray wrappers blowing in the wind.
Across the street, the entrance to the apartment building stood open.
Dawson stepped out of his car, locking it with a soft beep. He crossed the street, his polished shoes crunching on the gravel near the curb. He walked up the concrete steps of the apartment building and pushed open the heavy glass-and-steel inner door into a dim, narrow hallway that smelled faintly of old floor wax and boiled cabbage.
He checked the mailboxes against the wall.
A. Miller – Apt 3B.
Without giving himself time to second-guess his insanity, Dawson walked down the dim corridor, climbed the creaking flight of stairs to the third floor, and stopped in front of apartment 3B.
He raised his hand and knocked twice.
For a long moment, there was only silence from inside. Then, the sound of a deadbolt sliding back, followed by the rattling of a chain lock.
The door creaked open a few inches. A woman peered out into the dim hallway.
She looked to be in her early thirties, with tired eyes the exact same shade of pale blue as Maisie’s. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a loose, messy clip, and she wore a faded gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. She looked exhausted—the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.
She blinked, looking past Dawson’s expensive suit and striking features with a mixture of wariness and confusion.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice raspy.
"Mrs. Miller?" Dawson asked, keeping his tone calm and professional.
Her grip on the door tightened slightly. "Yes. Who are you?"
"My name is Dawson Parker. I'm an attorney downtown. Your daughter, Maisie, and I... crossed paths yesterday morning."
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The woman’s breath hitched. All the color drained from her face in a fraction of a second. She reached behind her instinctively, as if to shield something, and her voice dropped to a terrified whisper.
"Did Maisie do something wrong? Is she in trouble?"
