As we stepped out of the precinct, the night air felt fresh against my face, a stark contrast to the stifling sense of justice deferred that had hung in the air inside. My mind raced, still replaying every word, every exchange. It wasn’t just about protecting my son, though that was paramount; it was about sending a message to Mark Carver and others like him who think they can manipulate the system to inflict harm on those more vulnerable.
The drive home was silent. Dylan stared out the window, the city lights smearing into long streaks of color against the darkened streets. I knew he was processing, trying to make sense of a world that had suddenly revealed its darker shades. I wanted to say something, anything to reassure him that the ordeal was over, but words felt insufficient.
Instead, I reached over and squeezed his shoulder. He turned to look at me, eyes searching mine for an understanding and a promise that we’d get through this. “We’ll figure this out, Dylan. I promise,” I said, my voice carrying the weight of both oath and hope.
