Silence.
I tried again, louder, completely forgetting that he’d said he was in a closet. Panic crawled up my throat.
Then I heard it. Faint. Croaking.
“In the closet…”
I found him curled up in the hallway closet, hugging his stuffed dinosaur like it was the only solid thing left. His knees were pulled to his chest. His little fingers trembled. I dropped to the floor and wrapped him in my arms.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he said, voice muffled in my shoulder. “I tried to help her.”
“You did everything right,” I whispered, brushing his hair back, trying not to fall apart.
He smelled like sweat and fear and that earthy little-boy scent that always reminded me of playdough and crayons. His body was shaking. But he hadn’t cried.
Not then. Not yet.
“Where is she, baby?”
