I laughed, but it came out shaky.
“Teenagers are terrifying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Inside the meeting room, the air felt too warm.
There was a long folding table, six plastic chairs, a half-empty box of stale donuts, and enough tension to choke a horse.
Kinsley’s father arrived first.
His name was Aaron.
I had seen him a few times at the stop, usually rushing, always in work boots, always looking like a man with more bills than hours.
He walked in fast, jaw tight.
Kinsley was not with him.
That worried me.
Behind him came Mrs. Bell, the neighbor who had posted the photo.
She lived across from Kinsley.
I knew her by sight.
Perfect lawn.
Seasonal wreaths.
A small dog she pushed in a stroller.
The kind of woman who waved with three fingers but never looked you fully in the eye.
She walked in holding her phone like a weapon.
