“Are you Linda?” he asked.
I nodded because my throat wouldn’t cooperate.
He held out a folded note. “This is for you.”
My name was on it. The handwriting was familiar enough to make my hands go numb. Grant. I unfolded it right there, under the porch light.
Mom, don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to him and get in the car.
“I can’t discuss details here.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Grant was my wild one. The one I worried about when my phone rang late.
The officer said with a flat expression, “Ma’am, I need you to come with me.”
I looked up, panicked. “Is my son alive?”
His eyes flicked away for half a second, as if he knew something but didn’t want to spill the secret.
“Please,” I whispered. “Is Grant alive?”
He swallowed. “He’ll explain everything.”
The officer got in front and started driving.
I glanced back into my house. The table was set. The food was waiting. The candles were dying.
“My children were supposed to be here,” I heard myself say.
He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
I should’ve called Mark, anyway. Instead, I grabbed my cardigan, locked the door out of habit, and got into the cruiser. The back seat smelled like disinfectant and old fear. The door shut with a heavy click that made my stomach drop.
The officer got in front and started driving.
“Just tell me if my son is okay.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“Not far where?”
He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Someplace safe.”
“Safe from what?” My voice rose. “Did Grant get hurt? ” Did he do something?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Ma’am,” he said, calmly. “Please.”
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Just tell me if my son is okay.”
He paused. “You’ll have answers soon. I promise.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark: “Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.”
Trust us. After four hours of silence.
I typed back. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Delivered, but not read.
“Are they in danger?”
