Iris
“There,” the detective says, pointing to the screen. “That’s Silas Creed’s car turning onto his street.”
I lean forward, squinting at the grainy traffic camera footage. Sure enough, the black SUV we’ve been tracking through the city’s surveillance system turns smoothly onto the tree-lined street. The timestamp reads 2:17 PM—less than thirty minutes after Miles was taken from our building.
“So he took our son straight to his home,” I say hollowly. “He didn’t even try to hide where he was going.”
Arthur’s face darkens so much that it’s nearly black by now. “I think he wanted to be found,” he mutters bitterly. “Like stealing my son is some kind of f*****g message.”
A message. A message for what, exactly? Just to prove that he could do it? To try and make Arthur look e
