Her twin clutched her stomach as the first girl pulled an empty medicine syringe from inside her shoe. The officer called 911, then froze when he saw their father’s name on the prescription—and locked the doors.
PART 1
The station smelled of burnt coffee and rain-soaked coats. A box fan rattled behind the front counter, pushing warm air across a stack of incident forms while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Officer Paul Hayes was halfway through writing a parking report when the two girls came through the glass doors holding hands.
They were dressed almost alike—gray hoodies, jeans, worn sneakers—but only one of them was walking straight. The other kept folding at the waist as if every step pulled a string tight inside her stomach.
Paul stood so quickly his chair rolled backward and struck the metal filing cabinet.
“Are you here with an adult?” he asked, stepping out into the lobby.
