And again. Outside, the crowd was growing larger. Alexander could see news vans pulling up, reporters setting up cameras, and more desperate people arriving with wheelchairs, crutches, and photos of sick loved ones.
But the worst part wasn’t the crowd, or the reporters, or the ringing phones. The worst part was the fear that was growing in his chest like ice water. If these people were looking for Sophia, if they knew about her miracle, then she was in danger.
A six-year-old girl wandering the streets alone, with crowds of desperate people hunting for her. Alexander grabbed his phone and dialed 911. Emergency services, what’s your emergency? I need police protection for a child, he said urgently.
There’s a mob of people looking for a six-year-old girl, and I’m afraid they might hurt her. Sir, can you be more specific? What’s the child’s name and location? Alexander realized with growing horror that he didn’t know Sophia’s last name, her address, or even which school she attended. He knew nothing about her except that she was poor, her mother worked three jobs, and she believed in miracles.
The beau, I don’t know, he admitted. But she’s in danger. There are people looking for her, crowds of people, and she’s just a little girl.
Sir, without more specific information, there’s not much we can do. If you’re concerned about a specific child, you might want to contact Child Protective Services. Alexander hung up in frustration.
Child Protective Services? That would take hours, maybe days. By then it might be too late. He rolled back to his security monitor and watched in growing alarm as the crowd outside his gates swelled to over a hundred people.
Some looked genuinely desperate, parents holding sick children, elderly people in wheelchairs, families clutching medical records, but others looked dangerous. There were men with wild eyes screaming about religious prophecies, women fainting from religious ecstasy, and what looked like cult members in matching robes. And in the middle of it all, Alexander spotted something that made his blood freeze.
A black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street from his mansion. Inside, he could make out the silhouettes of several people watching his house through binoculars. His ex-wife, Caroline.
Alexander would recognize that car anywhere. It was the same one she’d used during their bitter divorce proceedings, when she’d hired private investigators to follow him and document his deteriorating mental state in hopes of getting a larger settlement. But what was she doing here now? And why was she watching his house with what looked like a team of lawyers or investigators? Before he could process this new threat, his doorbell rang again.
This time when he checked the monitor, he saw a familiar face that made his heart leap with relief. Dr. Patricia Winters, his neurologist, stood at his gate with her medical bag, looking concerned and slightly overwhelmed by the crowd pressing around her. Alexander immediately opened the gate and watched as Dr. Winters pushed through the mob, ignoring their desperate pleas for healing and miracle cures.
She made it to his front door, just as several reporters tried to follow her through the gate. Close it, she shouted, and Alexander slammed the gate shut just in time to keep the crowd outside. Dr. Winters stumbled into his foyer, breathing heavily and looking shaken…
