This time, I hauled ass out of the apartment and down the front steps. Toddlers and police cruisers didn’t mix. Forget the radio, lights, and sirens in the front. I had a shotgun in the trunk.

I ran to the passenger’s side, peering in from the sidewalk. The interior of the cruiser appeared empty. I tried the door, but it was locked. I walked around more carefully, heart pounding, breathing shallow as I inspected each door and window. No sign of activity. Locked, locked, locked.

But she’d taken the keys. Think like Sophie. What button might she have hit on the key fob? What might she have done?

Then I heard her. A thump, thump, thump from the trunk. She was inside, banging against the lid.

“Sophie?” I called out.

The thumping stopped.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, Sophie. Mommy’s here. Honey,” my voice had risen shrilly, despite my best intentions. “Are you all right?”

“Mommy,” my child replied calmly from inside the locked trunk. “Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”

I closed my eyes, exhaling my pent-up breath. “Sophie, honey,” I said as firmly as I could. “I need you to listen to Mommy. Don’t touch anything.”

“ ‘Kay.”

“Do you still have the keys?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Are they in your hand?”

“No touching!”

“Well, you can touch the keys, honey. Hold the keys, just don’t touch anything else.”

“Stuck, Mommy. Stuck.”

“I understand, honey. Would you like to get out?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. Hold the keys. Find a button with your thumb. Push it.”

I heard a click as Sophie did as she was told. I ran to the front door to check. Of course, she’d hit the lock key.

“Sophie, honey,” I called back. “Button next to it! Hit that one!”

Another click, and the front door unlocked. Expelling another breath, I opened the door, found the latch for the trunk and released it. Seconds later, I was standing above my daughter, who was curled up as a pink puddle in the middle of the metal locker holding my backup shotgun and a black duffel bag filled with ammo and additional policing gear.

“Are you all right?” I demanded to know.

My daughter yawned, held out her arms to me. “Hungry!”

I scooped her out of the trunk, placed her on her feet on the sidewalk, where she promptly shivered from the chill.

“Mommy,” she started to whine.

“Sophie!” I interrupted firmly, feeling the first edge of anger now that my child was out of immediate danger. “Listen to me.” I took the keys from her, held them up, shook them hard. “These are not yours. You never touch these keys. Do you understand? No touching!”

Sophie’s lower lip jutted out. “No touching,” she warbled. The full extent of what she’d done seemed to penetrate. Her face fell, she stared at the sidewalk.

“You do not leave the apartment without telling me! Look me in the eye. Repeat that. Tell Mommy.”