I ran across the wet asphalt of the parking lot toward my truck.

My keys jangled in my shaking hand.

I unlocked the door and climbed inside, locking it behind me.

The interior of the truck smelled like motor oil and dry cedar.

I started the engine.

The headlights cut through the dark, rainy night.

I backed out of the space and headed for the street.

The wipers scraped against the windshield with a rhythmic clicking sound.

I drove toward the highway.

My mother’s house was thirty minutes north.

The traffic on the interstate was slow, the red taillights of the cars ahead reflecting on the wet road.

I kept looking in my rearview mirror, half-expecting to see police lights behind me.

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

The screen lit up the dark cab of the truck.

It was another text from the unknown number.

This time, it was a photo.

It showed a wooden crib, painted a pale, soft yellow.

Inside the crib was a handmade quilt with Megan’s initials embroidered in the corner.

The quilt had been missing from our closet for three weeks.