“Daddy, they took my phone. Grandpa said you don’t want me anymore.”
Then the call cut off.
Now I was standing in their million-dollar hallway, under a chandelier bright enough to expose every lie in that house, listening to my nine-year-old try not to cry.
Terrence stopped ten feet behind me.
His wife, Deborah, appeared beside him in a silk robe, holding her phone like a weapon.
“You are trespassing,” she said.
I looked at the locked door.
Tyler had gone there Friday afternoon for what my ex-wife called a weekend visit with his grandparents.
Sunday came.
No Tyler.
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