Lena Whitaker’s hands shook so badly she could barely keep them steady on the steering wheel.
The narrow Alabama back roads blurred past her headlights as she drove faster than she ever had before, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every breath felt too shallow, too fast.
In the back seat, six-year-old Mila sat unnaturally still.
Tears slid silently down the child’s cheeks, catching the glow of passing streetlights. She hadn’t spoken a word in over three hours—not a sob, not a question, not even a whimper.
“Baby… please,” Lena begged softly, glancing into the rearview mirror. “Talk to Mommy. Tell me what hurts.”
Nothing.
Mila just stared straight ahead, her small body rigid, her hands clenched in her lap.
It had started the moment Mila returned from her weekend with her father.
