“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?”
I stared at the back of the officer’s head. “You know my kid.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Yes, ma’am.”
My heart lurched. “Are they in danger?”
“No.”
“Then why am I in a police car?”
He exhaled like he was trying not to say the wrong thing. “Just hold on.”
Through the glass, I saw movement.
The police officer turned into a parking lot. A community center I recognized. The one where I used to sit on hard bleachers to support my kids. We always had the best time. The sight brought back so many happy memories, but they couldn’t drown out my anxiety.
