DAXTON POV
The police station was a blur of fluorescent lights and muted chaos. The walls were lined with faded posters of safety tips and stern warnings about crime, but all I could focus on was the relentless ticking of the clock above the front desk. The sound hammered into my skull, each second stretching into an eternity.
The bitter taste of burnt coffee lingered in my mouth, but it did nothing to ease the exhaustion clawing at me. I was on my fifth cup—maybe sixth. I’d lost count hours ago. The dark brew was lukewarm now, sitting in the cracked white mug I gripped too tightly. Across the room, Henry was slouched in a chair, staring blankly at the scuffed linoleum floor. He hadn’t moved much since Dad and Vanessa arrived, his face pale and drawn, his hands clenching and unclenching
