For several seconds after Harlan Voss asked who had found his daughter, nobody moved.
The garage had gone strangely quiet.
Three engines idled behind him, exhaust curling pale through the frozen air.
Men in dark coats stood at a respectful distance, but no one looked relaxed.
All of them were watching Harlan.
Harlan was watching me.
“I did,” I repeated.
His eyes dropped to Belle.
Whatever people said about Harlan Voss—and people in Detroit said plenty—the expression that crossed his face when he knelt beside his little girl belonged to an ordinary frightened father.
“Hey, Bell.”
Belle’s eyes opened.
“Dad?”
The single word seemed to take something out of him.
“I’m here.”
He brushed the hair away from her forehead.
A gray-haired woman carrying a medical bag hurried forward with two others.
Harlan moved immediately so they could work.
I started backing away.
Someone had come for Belle.
