The officer looked at my thirteen-year-old son as if he were trying to decide how much of the truth I could handle.
Then he looked back at me.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “your son didn’t just sell a guitar.”
My fingers tightened around Ethan’s hand.
The second officer stood half a step behind him, her expression serious but not hostile. Neither of them had reached for handcuffs. Neither had raised a voice. Still, when two uniformed police officers appeared on your porch before eight in the morning and asked if you were the mother of your thirteen-year-old son, logic disappeared.
Fear took its place.
“What did he do?”
Ethan stared at the floor.
“Mom—”
“What did you do, Ethan?”
His hand was cold inside mine.
The first officer exhaled.
“My name is Officer Daniel Mercer. This is Officer Lena Ortiz. We need you both to come outside because there’s someone waiting by our patrol car.”
