The officers advised us to keep the doors locked and stay together. The tall officer, whose name tag read Sgt. Miller, said he would park outside as a visible presence. Our mom, finally told a sanitized version of the truth—“Logan is having a mental health crisis and is being aggressive”—started crying, clutching her rosary.
“I’ll call him,” Mom wept. “I’ll talk sense into him. He listens to me.”
“No!” I shouted, too quickly. The sharpness of my voice made her jump. “No contact. Mom, if you tell him we’re here, you are putting a target on this house.”
Then, my phone buzzed.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
A text from Logan.
Where’s my wife?
Another followed immediately.
You think you can embarrass me and walk away? Taking my car?
Then the one that made my blood go cold, freezing the marrow in my bones:
Tell Megan I’m sorry she got dragged into this. But it ends tonight.
