A car rolls past too slowly, headlights dragging across your face like fingers. The driver doesn’t stop, but you catch a glance in the side mirror, a look that says, We know why you’re here.
Your skin prickles.
You don’t wait for the signal to return. You move, fast and careful, down the sidewalk until your phone chirps back to life. Then you call again, and this time you also call the only person you can think of who ever treated your case like it mattered more than paperwork.
Detective Ana Reyes answers on the second ring. Her voice is tired, but when you say your son’s name, it sharpens.
“Tell me exactly where you are,” she says.
You tell her. You give her the house number twice.
There’s a pause. Not the dispatcher pause. This one is heavier, the kind that means the detective’s brain is doing math you don’t want to hear.
“That address,” Reyes says slowly, “has been mentioned before.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. “In Leo’s case?”
“In other cases,” she corrects. “Not officially. Not enough to get a warrant. But enough that my gut remembers it.”
