Years ago, my 7-year-old daughter and I created a silly little code. “A red balloon means I need help,” she joked. Now she’s fourteen — and suddenly she sent me every single one of our old codes.
Hannah scrolled through the security footage, her fingers trembling slightly. At 4:17 PM, the time Emma should have arrived, the camera captured only a few passing cars and a cyclist. No Emma. No sign of her walking up the driveway.
I tried calling Carla again. She picked up on the third attempt, irritated.
“Mark, I’m in a meeting—”
“Emma isn’t at Lily’s,” I cut in, my voice cracking. “And she sent me the codes.”
