“You don’t understand!” Mark screamed, his voice rising to a frantic, hysterical pitch as the deputies slammed him against the side of his SUV, the steel handcuffs clicking into place with a definitive, heavy snap. “The current took him! I didn’t push him! It was an accident!”
“We know you didn’t push him, Mr. Rhodes,” Detective Miller said, looking at the man with absolute disgust. “Because when my team raided the basement apartment of your mistress’s home two hours ago, we found a hidden door behind the wine cellar. Your son Owen was inside. Alive. Well. And waiting for us to bring him back to his mother.”
My heart stopped. The world seemed to stall on its axis as the detective’s words echoed through the quiet afternoon air. Alive.
A fourth, unmarked black SUV pulled up behind the police cars. The rear door opened, and a young boy stepped out into the sunlight. He was wearing an oversized hoodie, his shoulders slightly slouched, but his eyes—those fierce, intelligent eyes that had written a lifeline from a classroom desk—locked directly onto mine.
