He doesn’t even recognize it’s me yet; he’s in such a state. “Wyatt! It’s me. Daddy!”
His head snaps up. His legs buckle mid-stride, and he almost goes down but catches himself.
And then he sees me. “DADDY!”
The scream that tears out of him cracks something inside me that I know will never fully heal. He runs. I run.
We collide in the middle of the road, and I scoop him off the ground and press him against my chest so hard I can feel his heartbeat against mine. His little arms lock around my neck. His legs wrap around my waist. His face buries into my throat, and he’s sobbing so hard it shakes us both.
“Daddy. Daddy. Daddy.” He says it over and over.
I sink to my knees on the asphalt. Hold him. Press my face into his hair. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. My voice is destroyed. “I’ve got you, son. You’re safe. Daddy’s here.”
“They took us, Daddy.” He’s gasping between sobs. “Uncle Beau, he took us to a house, and Lola—they tied Lola up?—”
Every word is a bullet.
“She told me to run. S-she pushed me out the window and told me your phone number, and she said run and don’t look back?—”
He pulls back. “But she didn’t come with me, Daddy.” His bottom lip is trembling so hard he can barely get the words out. “She stayed. She stayed so they wouldn’t chase me.”
The road tilts and my heart pounds so hard I might pass out. Lola pushed my son through a window. Gave him my number. Told him to run. And then she stayed behind.
She stayed so they’d come for her instead of him.
My city girl. My firefly. My wife. The one I told was playing house this morning.
She chose my son over herself.
I close my eyes. And try to breathe. Force the rage and the grief and the terror into a box and slam the lid because I cannot fall apart. Not here. Not now. My son needs me upright.
Falling apart can happen later.
“You were so brave, Wyatt.” I cup his face with both hands and wipe his tears with my thumbs. “You are the bravest kid I have ever known. And I am so proud of you.”
“We have to save Mommy,” he says. “Daddy, please. We have to go get her. She’s still in there. Please.”
My body goes still. Wyatt just called Lola his mom. I cuddle him tighter as a tear slips free against him.
“We’re going to get her. I promise you.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
I stand with Wyatt in my arms and carry him to the truck. Ace is standing outside the driver’s door with his hand over his mouth and tears cutting silent tracks through the dust on his face.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to.
I climb into the passenger seat with Wyatt on my lap. He won’t let go of me. His fists are knotted in my shirt, and his face is pressed against my chest, and every few seconds another sob racks through his small body.
“Drive,” I tell Ace.
He drives. In complete silence. Five minutes later, the property comes into view. A house set back from the road behind a low fence and a row of dead trees. The kind of place that looks like a vacation rental from the outside and a prison from the inside.
And we’re not alone.
Jett’s truck is already there, pulled up at an angle across the end of the driveway, blocking any exit. His crew are climbing out. Four men. Armed.