Chapter 11 - THIRTY MINUTES
The wall behind Mom was red brick.
One small window.
Exposed copper pipes.
Concrete floor.
Gas can.
Metal shelves.
Nothing else.
Police played the video repeatedly.
I stared at every frame.
“Again.”
Ruiz said, “Hannah—”
“Again!”
He replayed it.
Mom.
Chair.
Wall.
Window.
Shelves.
Timer.
Something caught my eye.
“Stop.”
He froze the image.
“Go back.”
A reflection appeared in a metal shelf.
Yellow letters.
Reversed.
FINCH.
My heart slammed.
“I know that place.”
Ruiz leaned closer.
“What?”
“The original Morning Finch kitchen.”
Before I rented the current bakery, I worked out of an old commercial kitchen on Finch Avenue.
The landlord later turned the building into storage.
Dad helped me move equipment from there seven years earlier.
“He knows it.”
Officers were moving before I finished speaking.
The building was eleven minutes away.
Timer estimate:
Seventeen minutes remaining.
I begged to go.
Ruiz refused.
Then Jasmine grabbed my shoulders.
“Let them do their jobs.”
I watched the clock.
Sixteen minutes.
Fourteen.
Twelve.
Nobody spoke.
At nine minutes, Ruiz received a radio update.
Officers reached the building.
Door locked.
At eight minutes, they breached it.
I heard shouting through the radio.
“Police!”
“Clear left!”
“Room clear!”
“Moving downstairs!”
Seven minutes.
I couldn't breathe.
Then static.
A voice.
“Victim located.”
My knees almost collapsed.
“Is she alive?”
Ruiz held up one finger.
Wait.
I hated him for that finger.
Then:
“Female conscious. Device appears non-explosive. Fuel present. Request fire department.”
The timer was fake.
Dad wanted us terrified.
It worked.
Mom was alive.
When paramedics brought her out, her left cheek was swollen.
There were rope marks around her wrists.
She saw me and started crying.
I hugged her.
For one second, I was a little girl again.
Then I remembered her holding trash bags in my bakery.
I stepped back.
Her face changed.
“Hannah…”
“I’m glad you're alive.”
“I know I don't deserve—”
“Not now.”
She nodded.
Police arrested Dad at Riverside.
He had apparently believed the hostage video would force me to demand police leave.
Instead, officers surrounded the building.
He surrendered after twenty-two minutes.
They recovered the backpack.
Inside were passports.
$18,000 cash.
Fake identification.
And one handgun.
I had never known Dad owned a gun.
That night, Ruiz called.
“We searched your father’s truck.”
“More gasoline?”
“No.”
“What?”
“A burner phone.”
“So?”
“There are messages between your father and someone else.”
My stomach tightened.
“Victor?”
“No.”
“Paul Warner?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Ruiz hesitated.
May you like
Then he said:
“Your mother.”
