“Ma’am, we received a call about a possible issue involving a child at this address. Just need to make sure everyone’s okay.”
My hand tightened on the doorframe. “What kind of issue?”
Before the officer could answer, Tyler came barreling down the hallway with the confidence of a man expecting backup.
“I called!” He held up my old phone — the one I kept charged in case he ever needed to reach help if anything happened to me. “My mom is the worst! She won’t give me ice cream!”
I closed my eyes. My seven-year-old had called the police over dessert.
“I’m so sorry,” I told the officer, reaching for the phone. “I never imagined he’d use it for this.”
Tyler looked offended. “I’m seven.”
“Thank you for confirming the age on your birth certificate.”
I expected the officer to laugh. He didn’t. His nameplate read BRUCE.
“Mind if I ask him a couple of questions?” he said.
