Sandra’s world felt like it was dissolving. The man who had spent three hours assembling a crooked crib was a danger? The man who cried at the first ultrasound?
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“I need to see him,” Sandra demanded, her voice cracking. “I don’t believe this. There has to be a mistake.”
“We’ve contacted the Blackwood Courthouse to unseal the ‘why’ behind the flag,” Sarah said. “Until then, Jake is being held in the administrative wing.”
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Three hours of agonizing silence passed. Sandra held her daughter, her mind racing through every moment of her six years with Jake. Every kindness, every steady look, every “boring” Sunday. It didn’t add up. A monster doesn’t drive forty miles at midnight for lemon popsicles.
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