My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

Genevieve Fuller appeared with a phone in her hand. “Officer, I have cameras in the backyard,” she said. Her voice shook, but she held steady. “They don’t show all of Sue’s property, but you can see part of the side yard through the fence gap. I was checking them after I called 911, and…” She swallowed. “You need to see it.”

The officer took the phone. Watched. His expression changed with frightening speed from professional focus to open disbelief. He looked at William. “Sir, I think you need to see this.”

William’s legs felt made of wire as he stood. The paramedic kept Owen wrapped in a blanket while William stepped beside the officer.

The timestamp in the video read 8:17 p.m.

At first the image was grainy and oddly distant: Genevieve’s neat backyard, the fence line, a sliver of Sue’s property visible through gaps between wooden boards. Movement entered the frame. Sue Melton, dragging something across the grass by one arm.

William leaned closer, heart slamming.

It was Owen.