Chapter 11: Thirty Days

I opened the van door myself, with Milo's hand in mine.

Brice stood on the curb with an officer at each side and four phones raised behind him.

Roz had her hands up where everyone could see them.

Clyde stepped out and stood next to the van, with his jaw tight.

"Mrs. Pennington," said the officer who had cuffed me, "step away from the vehicle."

"I'm coming out."

I climbed down and kept hold of Milo's hand.

"Nobody took him," I said, loud enough for the phones. "He climbed in. He asked to sit with me. I said yes for two blocks, and I'm giving him back."

"Giving him back," Brice repeated, for the cameras. "Like a library book."

"He's your son," I said. "I won't take a child from his father by force. I'm doing this where everyone can see me do it."

I knelt on the pavement and held my son by both shoulders.

"First Saturday," I whispered, so only he could hear. "I'll be there. I'm not leaving."

His eyes went to the police and to the phones, and back to me.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He nodded.

He walked across the pavement to his father without looking back, with his small shoulders squared.

Brice put a hand on the back of his neck, and the hand tightened.

"Good boy," he said quietly.

Then he looked at me over Milo's head.

The smile was gone.

"Whatever he gave you on that stage," he said, in a voice so low that it only reached me, "you will bring it to me tonight."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't lie. It doesn't suit you." He leaned in. "One more word to a reporter about that boy, and I will send him somewhere you can't drive to."

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