“But why would Meema not tell me? Not answer her phone for hours?” I drag my fingers across the hood of my SUV, the metal cool against my skin. “She’s compulsively responsible, always has been.”
“Then we need to expand the search,” Sydney says decisively. “If anyone’s reported an elderly woman found confused or lost—”
“She’s not confused,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Sorry. I just—Meema’s sharp as ever.”
“I know.” Sydney’s voice is gentle in a way that makes my chest ache. “I’m just covering all bases.”
We climb back into the SUV, the silence between us thick with unspoken fears and questions. As I pull onto Main Street, my phone vibrates in the cup holder where I tossed it, the screen lighting up with “UNKNOWN CALLER.”
I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it, swiping to answer without taking my eyes off the road. “Hello?”
“Kingston?” The gruff voice is instantly recognizable as Sheriff Ford, a man who’s known me since I was stealing street signs as a bored teenager. “I’ve got Maisie at the station.”
Relief floods through me so quickly I nearly miss the implications. “The station? Is she okay? What happened?”
“She’s fine.” Ford’s tone gives away nothing. “But you’d better come down here.”
Before I can ask any more questions, he disconnects. I look at Sydney, who’s watching me with wide eyes.
“She’s at the sheriff’s office.” I’m already changing course, the SUV’ tires squealing as I make a sharp turn. “She’s okay.”
“Sheriff’s office?” Sydney’s confusion mirrors my own. “What on earth is she doing there?”
“We’re about to find out.” I press harder on the accelerator, the speedometer creeping well above the limit.
The squat, brick building’s served as the county sheriff’s office since before I was born. I’ve spent more time there than I care to admit—mostly as a cocky teenager being lectured about respecting property rights, occasionally to bail out teammates after particularly rowdy celebrations.
But I’ve never come here looking for my grandmother.
We park haphazardly in the small lot, and I’m out of the SUV before the engine fully dies, Sydney right on my heels. The front desk deputy barely has time to say “Kingston” before I’m demanding, “Where is she?”
“Hold up,” he says, rising from his chair. “Sheriff wants to talk to you first.”
“I want to see my grandmother,” I insist, my voice rising. “Now.”
The deputy looks like he might argue, but something in my expression must convince him otherwise. “This way,” he sighs, leading us through a heavy door and down a corridor that smells of industrial cleaner and stale coffee.
We pass the sheriff’s office, continue past a break room, and then—my heart drops as I realize where we’re headed—turn into the holding cell block. The metal bars and institutional lighting trigger an instinctive response, memories of my one and only overnight stay after a particularly bonehead post-championship celebration.
But this time, on the other side of those bars, it’s not a drunk teammate or rowdy fan.
It’s my grandmother, sitting primly on a bench in a county jail cell. Next to her is Pam.
“Meema?” My voice cracks embarrassingly.
She looks up, her eyes widening as she takes in Sydney and me standing there in shock. She’s still wearing her purple pantsuit from this morning, though it’s noticeably wrinkled now, and her headscarf has slipped slightly, revealing the thin regrowth of silver hair underneath.
“Brooks, Sydney.” There’s a strange mix of relief and resignation in her voice. Her hands grip the cold bars as she stands, moving with the careful deliberation of someone whose joints ache. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”
“Find out what?” I demand, moving closerto the cell. “What the hell is going on?”
Before she can answer, Sheriff Ford appears behind us, his boots announcing his presence on the concrete floor. “I’ll release her,” he says, jingling a set of keys, “as soon as she talks to you.”
“Talks to us about what?” Sydney finds her voice at last.
Ford steps forward, keys in hand. “Side room’s empty. You can talk in there.” He unlocks the cell, the metal door swinging open with a creak that echoes down the corridor. Meema steps out, smoothing her rumpled pantsuit with dignity that would be impressive if I weren’t so confused and angry.
“Follow me,” the sheriff says, and we trail behind him and Meema to a small, bare room containing only a metal table and four chairs. The kind of room where bad news is delivered, confessions are made, lives are changed.
