Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 283

But Vivian said she couldn't find anything for now. However, she mentioned that lately Cecilia and Jared had been spending a lot of time together, though that wasn't unusual for them.

"Emmie, I've asked him to keep digging for clues. Should we wait a little longer?" Vivian said on the other end of the line.

"Thanks, Vivian. Oh, by the way, I brought you a gift, but I haven't had a chance to give it to you yet. Let's meet up in a couple of days," Emma replied. There was nothing else she could do now except wait—wait for news from Vivian, and wait for updates from the police.

Larson had told her to get some sleep, to rest, but how could she possibly fall asleep?

She lay back on the bed and turned off the lights. Even if she tried to follow Larson's advice and clear her mind, her thoughts thundered on restlessly.

Her body was utterly exhausted. She tried closing her eyes, hoping she could at least doze a little and regain some strength. But every time she drifted off, the same dream would come: her grandmother’s face, her grandmother calling out, “Emmie,” begging, “Emmie, help me.”

She would jolt awake, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst in the darkness.

In her dreams, her grandmother looked frail and changed, hunched over in a faded blue dress, mumbling for help. The image was so vivid—so heartbreakingly clear that Emma could see every wrinkle, every strand of white hair.

She had never dreamt of someone so sharply before. It was so real that even in the dream, her heart ached.

When she woke, she would press her hand hard over her chest and cry in silence, whispering into the darkness: Grandma, where are you?

So the night dragged on—caught between sleeplessness and relentless, haunting dreams. The same nightmare replayed over and over, until Emma began to believe her grandmother was truly enduring everything she saw in her sleep.

Then, to her surprise, the next morning brought news.

A message request appeared from an unknown number. The note read: Want to know where your grandmother is?

Emma’s exhaustion evaporated in an instant. She accepted the request without hesitation and immediately replied: Where is my grandmother? Who are you?

There was no answer. Instead, the person sent a video.

Emma opened it—and nearly broke down.

Her grandmother was there, lying curled up on a filthy bed in a dark, crumbling little room. She looked so thin, like a dried-up branch. It hadn’t even been that long, but the few silver strands in her hair had turned nearly all white!

Emma had just video-called her grandmother before boarding her flight. Back then, she hadn’t looked like this at all!

If the camera hadn’t zoomed right in on her grandmother’s face, Emma wouldn’t have believed it was really her. But it was—her grandmother, now so emaciated her features were barely recognizable. Her eyes were sunken, her skin dry and cracked, deep wrinkles etched across her face like the bark of an old tree.

Tears streamed down Emma’s cheeks as she watched; her hands shook so badly she could barely type. Crying and trembling, she furiously messaged: Who are you? Where are you keeping my grandmother? What do you want?

A single reply came back: You saw clearly, right? That’s your grandmother, isn’t it?

Cut the crap! Emma sent back, her anger boiling over.

The next message was brief: Three million.

Without hesitation, Emma responded: Account number!

“Listen, Emmie. I’m out right now, but I’ve seen the video. Leave it to me, and you should report it too. Mr. Fairchild is on his way to get you—he’ll be there soon. Wait for him in your room,” Larson instructed, his voice calm and direct. “Emmie, I promise you, I’ll bring Grandma back. Trust me!”

Emma could only reply with a single word: “Okay.” Then she waited for Latham to arrive.

He showed up quickly, already briefed by Larson, and without saying much, he took Emma straight to the police station.

When she handed the video over, the officers’ faces changed instantly. They reported it up the chain and began taking action right away.

Emma felt all her strength leave her.

Was it just more waiting now? Waiting for the police to track down the sender via IP address and ID information. Waiting for Vivian’s boyfriend to see if he could pinpoint the exact location.

Every minute stretched endlessly.

But soon Emma realized—the waiting wasn’t the hardest part.

The hardest part was feeling hope, only to have it snatched away again.

The police tracked the sender’s IP and found the registered WhatsApp user—a stranger’s name, someone Emma had never heard of.

They went straight to the address.

The man who answered was in his fifties. He said someone else had borrowed his phone. “He hooked my phone up to his laptop, messed with it for a bit,” the man explained.