Desk phone. Cell phone. Car keys. All gone from Leah’s room. And the formidable deadbolt lock on the door required two keys, which Angie, a thirty-something housekeeper with an impressive double chin and long black snake-braid, withdrew from her skirt pocket. She didn’t seem friendly, and I was too emotionally numb to care. She asked if I was hungry and I nodded, although I’d lost track of time and appetite. “I’ll be back with your lunch,” she said coolly. The lock double-clicked behind her. Something clicked inside me, too—outrage, panic, fear—and I rushed to the door, rattling the knob and pounding on the wood. “Let me out!” I shouted. Then I kicked the door and ranted about unfairness, threatening to report everyone in this household to child-protective services. They were all cruel and awful and hateful. My rampage only lasted about five minutes, until my voice cracked and my throat burned.
