Officer Boyd did not answer. She stood on her tiptoes to peer through the kitchen window, shading her eyes with both hands against the glare of the low sun.
“Is there a spare key?” the male officer asked, joining us at the corner of the house.
“Lorraine keeps one in her purse,” I said, my fingers twisting the silver ring again, tighter this time. “Nowhere else. She says keeping one under a flowerpot is an invitation for thieves.”
The male officer looked back toward the cruiser, then at Officer Boyd. “We have an open call on a missing three-year-old. No answer at the door, and the vehicle of the primary caregiver is unaccounted for.”
“We need to make entry right now, ma’am,” Officer Boyd said, turning her gaze directly to me.
The flat authority in her voice made the summer heat feel suddenly freezing. I nodded once, unable to find the words to object, even as the weight of what was happening began to settle into my chest.
