He was safe inside our home, or at least that was the fragile assumption I clung to while standing on the threshold.

“Yes, I am Rebecca Dawson,” I answered, noticing my own voice trembling slightly.

“Is Owen hurt, or has something terrible happened to my family?”

“I am Officer Jim Reynolds,” the older patrolman stated, resting his thumb lightly near his utility belt.

“This is Officer Kelly Morgan, and we need to speak directly with you and your son, Noah.”

Officer Reynolds appeared to be in his late fifties, possessing broad shoulders and a thick silver mustache.

His weathered face carried the solemn weariness of someone who had witnessed too many neighborhood tragedies over thirty years of service.

Officer Morgan looked younger, perhaps thirty years old, with neat auburn hair pulled back into a regulation bun.

She held her flat-brimmed campaign hat in both hands, her expression guarded and remarkably still.

“Why would you need to speak with Noah?” I asked, clutching the wooden doorframe until my knuckles turned pale.

“Did he do something wrong on his way home from school yesterday?”

Footsteps suddenly padded down the carpeted stairs behind me before either officer could offer an explanation.

Noah appeared at the bottom of the landing wearing gray flannel pajama bottoms and an oversized vintage rock shirt.

His dark hair was still dripping damp from the hot shower, sticking up wildly in the back where he had towel-dried it.