We walked out into the cold night air, the gravel crunching under our feet.

In the driveway of the suburban house, another officer was guiding Patricia into the back of a cruiser.

Patricia did not look disheveled; her gray hair was perfectly pinned, and her wool coat was buttoned to the chin.

She looked through the glass of the police car directly at me, her face expressionless.

My father held Owen tightly wrapped in a wool blanket, keeping his body between me and the cruisers.

“It’s over for tonight, Hannah,” he said, his breath misting in the cold air.

We rode to the local precinct in the back of a detective’s unmarked sedan.

The heater blew dry, dusty air into my face, but I could not stop shivering.

Owen whimpered in his carrier beside me, his tiny hand twitching.

Inside, the precinct smelled of stale coffee, wet floor wax, and old paper.

I sat on a wooden bench in the lobby, my fingers tracing the edge of Owen’s blanket.

My father stood near the front desk, talking in low tones to a detective who was typing on a computer.