The cop’s expression didn’t change. “Mind if I take a look inside?”
I hesitated for a split second, then nodded. “Please.”
He handed Noah to me, and I held my son tight against my chest, feeling his little heartbeat against mine. My mind spun with possibilities—none of them good.
The officer stepped inside first. The house was eerily quiet. Nothing looked out of place in the living room. The TV was off. Micah’s sneakers were by the door, where he always kicked them off. But there was no sign of him.
“Micah?” I called out, my voice unsteady.
No response.
I moved toward the kitchen, gripping Noah tighter. A plate sat in the sink, a half-eaten sandwich beside it. The fridge door was slightly open.
“Micah?” My voice was louder this time.
Still nothing.
The officer had his hand near his holster as he walked deeper into the house. I followed, my breath catching in my throat with every step.
Then we heard it.
A muffled sound. From the back of the house.
The officer signaled for me to stay put. I clutched Noah, heart hammering, as he walked cautiously toward the sound. I held my breath.
A few seconds later, his voice rang out. “Kid? You okay?”
Silence. Then, a weak, barely audible, “Yeah.”
I rushed forward despite the officer’s raised hand telling me to wait. I found Micah in the laundry room, slumped against the wall, holding his arm.
My heart dropped. “Micah!”
He looked up at me, dazed. “Mom…”
I kneeled beside him, my medical training kicking in. His pupils were dilated, and his hands trembled. There was a red mark on his cheek. “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
