Not because anything was funny.
Because the arrogance was so complete it became absurd.
“I said no swimming past her knees,” I said.
“I said keep her near the lifeguard stand.
I gave you her inhaler.
Those were the unbearable restrictions?”
Linda rolled her eyes, even now.
“You treat that child like she’s made of glass.”
“She has asthma.”
“She has an inhaler.”
“Which Tyler took with her backpack.”
The officer turned to him.
“Do you still have the bag?”
Tyler hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In my truck.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Your truck?”
He looked at the floor.
My voice came out low.
“You put my six-year-old in your truck?”
“No.
I put the backpack in the truck.”
“Where did you put Mia?”
He looked at Linda again.
The officer said, “Stop looking at your mother and answer the question.”
Tyler finally spoke.
“There’s a little snack place beyond the next public access.
I took Mia there.”
“Is she there now?”
“No.”
My knees nearly gave out.
The officer immediately reached for his radio.
“Then where is she now?”
Tyler’s composure cracked.
“She walked away.”
Everything inside me went silent.
“What?”
“She got upset.”
“You lost her?”
“I didn’t lose her.”
“You just said she walked away.”
“She wanted you.
She kept saying Grandma told her this was a surprise and that you would meet us.
When you didn’t come, she started crying.”
My mother whispered, “Tyler, stop.”
He spun toward her.
“No, you stop.
This was your idea.”
Linda’s face twisted.
“You agreed.”
“I agreed to take her for ice cream, not have the police called.”
The officer’s expression hardened.
“So you deliberately removed the child from the area where her mother believed she would be?”
Tyler looked at me.
