I leaned forward.
“Safe from what?”
He didn’t answer.
“Did Grant do something?”
“Ma’am—”
“Don’t call me ma’am. Tell me whether my son is hurt.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“You’ll understand soon.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “It isn’t.”
Then my phone vibrated.
For one hopeful second, I thought Grant had finally called.
Instead, it was Mark.
Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.
I stared at the words.
Trust us?
After four hours of silence?
I typed back immediately.
WHERE ARE YOU?
The message showed as delivered.
Not read.
I looked toward the front seat.
“You know my son.”
The officer remained silent.
“You know Grant, don’t you?”
After a pause, he said, “Yes.”
My pulse jumped.
“Are my children in danger?”
“No.”
“Then why am I sitting in the back of a police car?”
He exhaled slowly.
“Please hold on a little longer.”
I wanted to scream.
