Noah screamed.
I pushed myself off the floor and grabbed my son.
Daniel reached the garage door, but before he could open it, two officers came through the back entrance.
“Don’t move!”
Daniel stopped.
His hands went slowly into the air.
I watched him turn his head toward me.
There was no fear in his face.
Only anger.
“You ruined everything,” he whispered.
One of the officers moved between us.
“Ma’am, stay where you are.”
Another officer handcuffed Daniel and led him away.
The moment he disappeared through the door, Noah collapsed against me.
I held him so tightly that neither of us could speak.
The paramedics arrived seconds later.
They examined both of us and took the food sample I had hidden.
One of them looked at me.
“You did the right thing by preserving it.”
I nodded.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about Daniel’s words.
You ruined everything.
Not “I’m sorry.”
Not “You misunderstood.”
Not “I didn’t do anything.”
Everything.
As if our lives were simply an obstacle standing between him and something he desperately wanted.
And I was about to learn exactly what that something was.
Two days later, I sat in a hospital room while Noah slept beside me.
