That night, as my grandson’s voice shook through the phone—“Grandma, I’m at the police station.

How wrong I was.

The taxi stopped in front of the precinct, a gray two-story building with the lights on. I paid the driver and got out. My legs were shaking, not from fear, but from contained rage.

I entered through the main door. The desk officer, a young man about twenty-five years old, looked up from his desk.

“Good evening. How can I help you?”

“I’m here for Ethan Stone, my grandson. He called me half an hour ago.”

The officer checked a sheet in front of him.