“Ma’am,” the officer said, “we’ve got everything we need here. We are dispatching two units to your parents’ address right now to interview the nephew, seize the stolen phone, and interrogate the adults present. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to attempt contact with them first? To give them a heads up?”
I looked at my son lying in the hospital bed, his fragile body wrapped in bandages.
“I’m sure,” I replied, my voice steady. “Let them be surprised.”
I found out later, through the agonizingly detailed police reports and the hysterical voicemails I eventually received, exactly how the raid on my parents’ house went down.
After I had carried Leo out the door, my family had simply gone back to their Thanksgiving dinner. My mother had placed my stolen, locked iPhone on the kitchen counter next to the gravy boat. Carla had poured herself another glass of expensive red wine. My father had turned the volume up on the golf game.