I woke up at 2:14 a.m. to the kind of phone call that doesn’t leave room for breath.
“Ma’am,” the sheriff said, his voice steady in a way that made everything feel worse, “your daughter is here at the station. She’s safe right now. But I need you to come in.”
Safe right now.Those two words echoed long after the call ended.
Lily was supposed to be at her grandmother Kathy’s house for Easter. Safe in the guest room. Sleeping. Not sitting in a police station in the middle of the night.
“Is she hurt?” I asked, already halfway out of bed.There was a pause—just long enough to make my stomach drop.
“She’s safe right now,” he repeated.
That didn’t help.
I was dressed and out the door before my thoughts could catch up. I called Kathy. Once. Twice. Again.
No answer.
Her voicemail picked up, the same stiff greeting she’d never bothered to change.
