I ran outside. The sun burned behind the clouds, heat shimmered off the asphalt creating a liquid mirage. I squinted into the haze, but no one was on the road. I was afraid I would miss the police if I ran to the neighbors. So I waited, shaking and breathless. For the first time in my life, I prayed. I didn’t know what to pray to, so I searched in my head and came up with the 3-D picture of baby Jesus that hung on Anna’s bathroom wall.

“Please, God or Jesus, please make Anna okay, please. I’ll do anything you ask, I’ll be good, just please don’t take Anna from me.” I got on my knees and clasped my hands together. It felt good. Right. Like Hayley Mills in The Trouble with Angels.

My prayers became more confident. “Jesus and God, if you save Anna, I’ll go to church. Maybe I’ll even become a nun, yes, I will become a nun, just please make Anna, okay?”

Sirens!

I jumped up and began waving. A police car raced toward me, sailed over the speed bumps, then screeched to a halt.

“This-a-way!” I yelled. Tall Roy and Little Hervé flew out of the car. I recognized them immediately from the time I’d questioned them about my mother.

I led them inside, shushing them with a finger on my lips. Motioning them into the living room, I pointed upstairs in the direction of the bedroom. Now the house was deathly quiet, except for the sound of the shore breakers; those harmless-seeming waves that smash you down and rough you up as you scrape the sandy bottom.

The policemen mounted the stairs carefully, guns drawn. I couldn’t believe this was happening in my home. I couldn’t believe that kidnappers or murderers had been able to get past Mr. Jackson and the gates of Malibu Colony Road.

The tall cop eased his way down the hall until he was flattened against one side of the bedroom door. Hervé took a crouched position at the top of the stairs. I watched from behind a yellow cube in the living room, holding my breath. Then, without warning, Roy kicked open the door. Anna screamed again.

“Police! Put your hands up,” Roy shouted. The cops disappeared inside the room. I gripped the upholstery to keep from fainting.

“Are you fucking crazy?”

My father emerged from the bedroom, pulling a black silk robe around him. Behind him, Anna followed, wrapped to her armpits in Laura Ashley.

“Sid, sir, Mr. Goldstein, we’re sorry. We got a call.”

Roy kept his face down—his shoulders were slumped. The gun was back in its holster and dangled loosely as if it too were hanging its head.

“For Chris’sake, who called you?” my father said, descending the stairs.

“The kid,” Hervé yelped.

“A kid?” my father said.