“She didn’t take him to the airport,” my father said, looking around the parking lot.

“Then where?”

“The lake house,” he said.

“And she isn’t alone.”

He unlocked his truck with a sharp beep of the key fob.

“Get in,” he said.

I climbed into the passenger seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The engine roared to life, the sound loud in the quiet parking lot.

As we sped toward the exit, my phone lit up one last time on my lap.

It was a call from an unlisted number.

I slid my thumb across the screen and pressed the phone to my ear.

“Hannah,” a cold, calm voice said on the other end.

“Patricia,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the door handle.

“If you want to see your son alive again,” she said, “you will tell your father to stop.”

“And you will come to the lake house alone.”

The line went dead with a click.

I looked over at my father, who was navigating the heavy city traffic with military precision.

“Dad,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

“She called.”