I stood up, feeling a sudden surge of determination.

The fear that had paralyzed me for days was starting to turn into something else.

It was turning into a quiet, burning resolve.

“Let’s go, Arthur,” I said.

We walked out of the police station and into the bright Charlotte sunshine.

The air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat of the locked house.

Arthur unlocked his truck, and I climbed into the passenger seat.

The drive to the hospital was quiet, the radio playing softly in the background.

I stared out the window, watching the familiar trees and buildings flash by.

My mind kept replaying the image of Landon sitting in that interrogation room.

He had looked so small, so pathetic.

He had tried to blame his own mother for the pain he caused his own son.

We arrived at the hospital, and I hurried up to the neonatal intensive care unit.

The smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of monitors greeted me.

I walked to Rowan’s incubator, looking down at his tiny, fragile body.

He was sleeping, his little chest rising and falling rhythmically.