“So what do we do?” she paused, blinking fast, panic rising. “Scott… what do we do?”
“I think you need to start calling.”
“Calling who?”
I tightened my grip on her arms.
“Everyone.”
33
MICHELLE: TAKEN
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My—” The word stuck, fighting me. Saying it would make it real. “My sons. My sons are missing.”
There was a tiny pause on the other end, then her tone sharpened, all calm urgency.
“Okay, ma’am. I’m going to help you. What is your address?”
I rattled off the address, the words tumbling out too fast.
“All right, I have that. And you said sons, plural? How many children are missing?”
“Two. Both of them.”
“Okay, what are their ages?”
“Twelve and thirteen. Please—please, just hurry—”
“Units are being dispatched right now, ma’am. I understand you’re scared. I need a few more details so the officers can help as soon as they arrive.”
“Yes,” I said, forcing an exhale.
“What are your sons’ names?”
“Jake and Kyle McKallister. They should’ve been home over an hour ago, and I… can’t find them.”
“When did you last see the boys?”
“Three-fifteen. Maybe three-thirty. Should I… should I know the exact time?”
“No, ma’am. An estimate is fine. And where were they when you last saw them?”
“Here. At the house.”
“And they went missing from this location?”
“No. They were supposed to go to the skate park. But… they never made it there.”
“Were they with anyone?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. And none of their friends at the skate park have seen them either,” I said, my pulse spiking. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be.
“Do they have phones?”
“No. Not… no, they don’t have phones yet. We didn’t want the boys on them all the time. Wanted them outside… being kids—” I stopped, realizing the unintended harm born from good intentions. “Oh, my god.”
