She had a white linen shirt draped over her shoulders and was pushing a cart loaded with matching Rimowa suitcases.

Landon walked a step behind her.

He was wearing a blue floral button-down shirt, a severe sunburn reddening his nose and neck.

He was holding a duty-free shopping bag in one hand and his phone in the other, tapping the screen.

He looked completely relaxed.

He looked like a man who didn’t have a newborn son fighting for his life in a neonatal ward.

“There they are,” I whispered.

Arthur’s grip on my shoulder tightened.

As Patricia and Landon cleared the glass doors and entered the public lobby, Harris and two uniformed deputies stepped into their path.

“Landon Bellamy? Patricia Bellamy?” Harris asked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise of the terminal.

Patricia stopped, her designer sunglasses slipping down her nose.

“Yes?” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Can we help you? We have a car waiting.”

“I’m Detective Harris with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department,” Harris said.

He pulled a set of warrants from his jacket pocket.