By the time I turned onto our street, police cruisers were already positioned in front of the house, their lights flashing silently in the early evening glow, and my hands tightened on the steering wheel as I forced myself to breathe slowly enough to remain coherent.
Officers were moving toward the front door with controlled urgency, and I caught a glimpse of Tyler through the living room window, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker as he noticed the patrol cars.
I stepped out of my vehicle before it had fully stopped, shouting that my daughter was inside, that there were multiple men present, that I had audio evidence recorded.
An officer instructed me to remain outside while they entered, but I refused to move farther than the edge of the lawn, my entire body straining toward the house as if proximity alone could protect her.
Seconds felt like hours.
