“It is clear enough to identify his voice, his sister’s voice, and his mother’s voice,” my father said.

“Bring it to the precinct immediately,” Miller said.

“If the audio matches the physical evidence in the medical report, we can move on this.”

“We are five minutes away,” my father said, and cut the call.

He shifted the truck into drive, the tires gripping the slushy asphalt as we pulled away from the curb.

The city streets were gray and quiet under the winter storm.

I looked out the passenger window, my hand instinctively rising to touch my collarbone where the collar of my shirt hid more bruises.

The baby, Owen, was safe at the hospital under guard, but my chest still ached with the physical need to hold him.

“We’re going to finish this, Hannah,” my father said.

He didn’t look at me, but his left hand remained clenched on the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

We arrived at the local precinct ten minutes later, the tires crunching over the salt on the driveway.

The lobby smelled of wet wool, pine disinfectant, and cheap floor wax.