At 6:30 the next morning, Carol’s phone rang. She’d spent half the night awake either crying on Livy’s shoulder or into her pillow. She’d fallen asleep around dawn, jerking awake with a start, heart thundering when her phone began ringing.
Awake and alert, she sat up straight and turned the bedside light on low. Her heart gave a painful squeeze at the blocked number, and, with a trembling finger, she swiped up. “Hello,” she answered, her voice hoarse from lack of use and fear. The door to her bedroom opened, and she met the worry in Livy’s gray eyes—also red from crying and lack of sleep.
“Is the money ready?” a distorted, mechanical voice asked.
Carol swallowed the pitiful amount of saliva in her mouth. “I—I want to speak to my son.”
A brief pause, then a smack, and the wail of a chil
