Perhaps it’s the weight my family name carries or the money my parents have sprinkled into every major emergency service over the years, but the investigation moves quicker than I imagined. Judging by the crime shows I have binged watched, I was under the impression nothing would happen for a while.
I didn’t expect things to be moving less than two days later.
“They are here,” mom’s voice is steady, but I can tell by the slight change in tone that the fact the FBI is flooding our house is hard for her. I picture men in bomber jackets rifling through my bedroom, pulling out old pairs of underwear I have shoved behind my bed and finding empty bottles of booze under heaps of clothes.
“Mom,” I say, clutching the phone closer to my ear.
“I know baby,” she sniffles and I can hear some rust
