The twins slipped under the table without a sound.
The door slammed open. A man strode in—expensive jacket, wild eyes.
“Hey!” he called. “Anyone seen my kids?”
He spotted the shoes under the booth and laughed. “There you are.”
He reached down.
I stood up, blocking him. “Back off.”
“These are my kids,” he snarled.
“The boy says his mom didn’t wake up,” I said. “Care to explain?”
His hand twitched toward his belt. I saw the outline.
“No,” I said quietly.
Marlene shouted from the counter, “I’m calling the sheriff!”
The man backed away, sneering, then walked out. He sat in the SUV, engine idling.
“He won’t leave,” Noah whispered.
“Is there a back door?” I asked.
“Kitchen,” Marlene said, tears in her eyes.
I led the kids out into the rain and loaded them into my Kenworth sleeper cab.
“Why?” Noah asked.
“Because nobody hurts kids on my watch.”
I pulled out quietly and merged onto the interstate. The SUV never moved.
For hours, I drove hard. Noah sat beside me.
“He killed her,” he said softly. “Put her in the basement.”
At dawn, I stopped for fuel. Inside, a TV blared.
Amber Alert.
Pictures of the kids filled the screen. The suspect: an armed drifter in a semi.
My truck.