I went to the hospital with lunch to surprise my husband after yet another week of missed dinners and unanswered messages. Instead, one of his colleagues looked at me with tears in his eyes and whispered, “He hasn’t told you anything, has he?” Suddenly, every late night, every canceled plan, and every exhausted silence I'd endured over the past year seemed to take on an entirely different meaning.

I burst out of the hospital's subterranean loading bay into the blinding midday sun of Indianapolis. The autumn air was crisp, stinging my burning lungs as I sprinted toward Wyatt’s battered silver pickup truck in bay four.

My hands shook so violently I dropped the keys twice onto the asphalt before jamming the fob into the ignition. The engine roared to life.

I peeled out of the hospital parking lot, running the first red light on 16th Street, tires screeching against the pavement.

I grabbed my phone from my purse, dialing St. Jude Elementary with one hand while weaving through heavy downtown traffic at seventy miles per hour.

"St. Jude Elementary, this is Mrs. Gable," the receptionist answered cheerily.

"This is Nora Miller!" I screamed into the speaker. "Listen to me very carefully! Put the school on lockdown right now! Do not release Maisie Miller to anyone!"

"Mrs. Miller? What's going on? Dr. Sterling from Saint Ambrose called ten minutes ago saying there was a family emergency—"

"Do not let her go!" I shrieked. "There is a black van outside your playground! Call the police! If anyone tries to take my daughter, pull the fire alarm!"

"Oh my God—" The line went dead.

Panic, pure and blinding, seized my chest. I slammed my foot flat against the floorboard. The truck flew over the bridge across the White River, rattling violently as I tore through suburban intersections.

When I turned onto the street leading to Maisie’s school, my heart slammed into my throat.

Flashing red and blue lights illuminated the brick facade of St. Jude Elementary.

Two Indianapolis Metro police cruisers were parked diagonally across the entrance, blocking the black transport van. A burly man in plainclothes was pinned face-down against the hood of a cruiser, his hands cuffed behind his back by an officer.

I slammed on the brakes, abandoning the truck in the middle of the street with the driver's door wide open.

"Maisie!" I screamed, sprinting past the yellow perimeter tape. "Maisie!"

"Ma'am, stay back!" an officer shouted, reaching to block me.

"That's my daughter! Let me through!"

The front double doors of the school flew open. Mrs. Gable appeared, holding Maisie by the hand.

"Mommy!" Maisie cried, her small face streaked with tears as she broke away from the receptionist and ran down the concrete steps.

I fell to my knees on the sidewalk, wrapping my arms around her so tightly I could feel the rapid fluttering of her tiny heart against my ribs. I buried my face in her hair, sobbing uncontrollably, shaking with a terror so profound it made my bones ache.

"Mommy, what's happening?" Maisie whimpered into my neck. "The lady on the phone said Daddy was hurt."

I held her tighter, kissing her forehead, unable to speak.

Just then, my phone buzzed on the pavement beside my knee.

It was a text from an unknown, encrypted number.

I swiped the screen with a trembling finger. Attached was a photo: Wyatt, sitting on the floor of Sub-basement C, clutching a bloody gunshot wound to his side, surrounded by federal agents and paramedics.