By midnight, my hands were shaking as I tried calling Michael.
Straight to voicemail.
I called the hospital next.
No one by their names had been admitted.
A cold knot of fear tightened in my chest.
Around 2 a.m., I got in my car and drove through the empty streets, checking every emergency entrance and parking lot I could think of.
There was nothing.
By sunrise, I was standing inside the local police station, my voice barely working.
“My husband and daughter are missing,” I told the officer. “They left for the hospital hours ago, but they never arrived.”
The officer’s face grew serious.
The next three days felt endless.
I barely slept.
Barely ate.
Every time my phone rang, my heart nearly stopped.
Then on the third afternoon, a detective knocked on my door.
His expression was grim.
“Mrs. Lawson,” he said quietly, “we’ve located your husband’s vehicle.”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
He hesitated.
“It was found in the water… near Harbor Point.”
The room seemed to tilt around me.
“They’re… they’re inside?” I whispered.
The detective nodded slowly.
“The car was recovered this morning.”
I gripped the doorframe to keep myself from falling.
“What did you find?”
He looked at me carefully.
“The report is… unusual.”