are we going?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“Not far where?”
He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Someplace safe.”
“Safe from what?” My voice rose. “Did Grant get hurt? ” Did he do something?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Ma’am,” he said, calmly. “Please.”
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Just tell me if my son is okay.”
He paused. “You’ll have answers soon. I promise.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark: “Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.”
Trust us. After four hours of silence.
I typed back. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Delivered, but not read.
Sarah whispered, “Grant.”
Eliza made a soft, broken sound. Caleb just stared.
Grant lifted both hands as if he were walking into a storm. “Okay. Before anyone murders me. Happy birthday, Mom.”
My mouth finally worked.
“What are you wearing?” I demanded.
“Are you out of your mind?”
He swallowed. “A uniform.”
Mark choked out, “
