“Noah sold his custom twenty-one-hundred-dollar electric guitar to a private buyer yesterday to get that money for her,” I explained to the officers, feeling tears prick my own eyes.

“He wanted to buy her a functioning wheelchair because her old one was unsafe.”

Officer Reynolds let out a low whistle, closing his small notebook with a definitive snap.

“That explains the business card from Walter’s Antique Instruments found tucked inside the cash envelope.”

“Can we get his guitar back from that store?” I asked, thinking of the eleven months Owen and I had spent saving every single spare dollar.

“I personally visited Walter’s shop early this morning before coming to your residence,” Officer Reynolds revealed with a twinkle in his eye.