Page 103 of Stolen Dreams

“Thanks, Tymber. We’ll be at the police station in a few.”

“I’ll head over with news once I have it.”

The call disconnects.

On instinct, I open my chat history with Kaya and stare down at the screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard, eager to type a message and tell her about the call. But I don’t. I close the app, lock my phone, and drop it in my lap.

Iknowthis isn’t her fault, but I’m still too fired up. I don’t trust myself to be kind right now. Not while Brianna is using our son—myson—as a bargaining chip.

What sort of person does that? Who kidnaps their child, the one they openly admitted to never wanting, and offers to return them for an obscene amount of money? What kind of person thinks death threats toward their child are acceptable?

The worst kind.

Abigail turns into the police station lot and parks near the entrance. As I step onto the sidewalk leading to the door, my parents park next to my car. They jog to catch up as Abigail opens the door and holds it for us.

A blast of cool air hits me as I step inside. The scent of stale coffee and day-old donuts filters through the room as I cross to the reception desk. A man with dark hair lifts his gaze from the computer screen, a smile on his face that falls when our eyes meet.

“Mr. Calhoun.” He sits taller. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have any updates.”

I glance down long enough to read the badge on his chest. “Well, I do, Officer Fritz. I need to speak with Emerson.”

His brows twitch then smooth out. “Which one?”

Irritation roars in my chest. “Does it matter? Pick one. I don’t care which.” I roll my eyes. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom mutters, her tone half-sincere, half reprimanding.

“Don’t,” I growl. “You can scold me later when Tucker’s home.”

Thankfully, she backs off.

Chief Emerson strolls through the bullpen, opens the door separating the lobby from the officers, and gestures for us to come in. Before I step through, I tell Officer Fritz Tymber should be here soon. Fritz agrees to send Tymber back when he arrives.

Emerson walks us into a small conference room and shuts the door. “Talk to me.”

“Got a ransom call about ten minutes ago.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then meets my gaze. “How much?”

“Hundred thousand.” My insides wring as I tell him what some sick fuck thinks my son’s life is worth.

His hands curl into fists at his sides as his jaw works back and forth. “They say anything else?”

Bile sinks its claws in my throat once more. I cover my mouth with a loose fist and inhale a slow breath. “He threatened Tucker’s life.”

Mom gasps. “Oh god.”

Dad wraps an arm around her shoulder and tugs her into his side. But that’s the end of his consolation. He doesn’t offer uplifting words or vacant promises. Not when things are so up in the air.

“Talked to Tymber on the way here. He’s got Levi on my call history to see which tower their phone pinged. Should be here soon.”

Emerson rests his hands on his duty belt, one on the butt of his sidearm and the other over a collapsed baton. “You try calling the number back?”

Why the hell didn’t I think of that?

“No.” I unlock my phone, go to the call history, tap on the unknown call, and put it on speaker.

“The number you have dialed is no longer accepting calls.”

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