PART 1: The Voicemail at Dawn
My older brother poured thousands of dollars into a lavish New Year’s Eve bash. Inside his heated home, his guests feasted on catered dishes, sipped champagne, and gathered around a dazzling chocolate fountain.
At the very same time, my twelve-year-old son and nine-year-old daughter sat outside in 29-degree weather for almost three hours. Their coats were flimsy. Their grandfather never showed up. And my brother was fully aware they were out there.
The worst part? Every bit of that party had been paid for with money from a family account under my control. I didn’t barge into his house or make a scene in front of anyone. Instead, at precisely 7:30 the next morning, I sent our mother one brief text message.
By breakfast, my brother was banging on my front door, insisting I give back what he called his money. But he had no clue what I’d already uncovered in the bank records. And when he finally hauled me into court, a single question from the judge would leave him without a word to say.
My name is Dana Haskins. I’m forty years old, married to an emergency room nurse named Marcus, and mother to two wonderful kids, Calvin and Molly. I host an overnight radio show in Wichita, Kansas.
Two decades in front of a microphone have taught me that staying calm usually gets more done than raising your voice. Sadly, I ended up having to use that lesson against my own brother.
On New Year’s Eve, I was on the air live from the station while my husband worked a shift at the hospital. The kids were supposed to spend the night at my older brother Ross’s place. Ross, forty-three, had bragged for weeks about the grand celebration he was planning. He’d booked professional caterers, rented fancy decorations, and invited nearly all of his wife Allison’s extended family.
"It’s all on me," he kept announcing. "Nobody needs to contribute." My father had agreed to look after Calvin and Molly during the party.
At 7:46 p.m., a text from Marcus came through. Dropped the kids at Ross’s. They went to the door. Heading to work. Love you. I smiled and kept the broadcast going.
At 10:52 p.m., a number I didn’t recognize called twice. Abby, my producer, spotted the calls, but I figured it was some reveler trying to phone in a tipsy New Year’s request. I didn’t pick up. At midnight, I counted down the last ten seconds of the year with thousands of listeners, and the studio filled with cheers from callers celebrating all over the city. I had no idea that while I was ringing in the new year, my children were sitting outside their uncle’s house, waiting for someone to notice them.
My shift wrapped up at six the next morning. As I collected my things, Abby nodded toward my phone. "Someone called you twice last night. You might want to check." There was a voicemail. I hit play.
An old man’s voice echoed through the empty studio. "Dana, this is Lamar. I live across the street from Ross. Your boy Calvin gave me your number. I tried calling your father, too."
He hesitated. "Your children are safe now. I brought them into my house and got them warm. But they’d been sitting outside Ross’s place since before eight." My whole body turned to ice.
