My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

He answered on the first vibration. “Hello?”

“Is this William Edwards?” a woman asked. Her voice shook. In the background he heard movement, something metallic, a door maybe, and then a muffled sound like someone crying.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Genevieve Fuller. I live next door to Sue Melton.” Her breath caught. “Your son just came to my house.”

William’s heart lurched so violently he had to grab the counter.

“What?”

“He ran into my backyard through the fence. He’s here now.” Her voice dropped lower, more frightened. “Mr. Edwards, he’s covered in blood.”

The kitchen tilted.

“What do you mean covered in blood?”

“I mean there’s blood all over his clothes and his face and his hands and—I don’t know if it’s his. He won’t let me touch him. He’s hiding under my bed. He’s shaking so hard I thought he was having a seizure.” She drew in a quick breath. “I called 911. I thought I should call you too.”

William was moving before she finished speaking, keys in one hand, wallet in the other, vision narrowing so fast the edges of the room dimmed. “Is he conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know. He keeps saying, ‘Don’t let them find me.’ Oh God.” Her voice wavered. “What happened to your little boy?”

“I’m on my way.” William slammed the front door behind him and practically fell into the driver’s seat. “Do not let anyone take him. Do you understand me? Not my wife, not Sue, nobody. Keep him with you until I get there.”

“I will.”

He backed out so fast the tires shrieked.

The drive became a series of blurs and red lights he barely registered. His thoughts came in flashes, fragmented and savage. Blood. Under a bed. Don’t let them find me. He imagined knives, broken bones, head wounds, car accidents, punishment gone too far. He imagined Owen’s small body collapsed in some sterile emergency room while adults explained around him and called it a misunderstanding. He imagined Sue with her hard hands and Marsha with her cold face and every warning sign he had minimized lining up now in perfect, obscene order.

By the time he turned onto Genevieve Fuller’s street, his hands were shaking so badly he almost missed the curb. Blue lights pulsed against the houses. Two police cruisers stood at angles in the driveway. An ambulance had just arrived, its back doors swinging open. William left his car crooked at the curb and ran toward the front porch.

An officer stepped into his path. “Sir—”