Without warning, the car jolted forward with a sudden, violent lurch.
Tires screeched against the pavement, and a muted thud followed—a low, sickening sound that made Ryley's blood run cold.
"What the hell was that?" he snapped, eyes darting toward Oliver. "Did you just hit something?"
Oliver's jaw tightened—not with panic, but focus. Without a word, he eased the gear into park, then reached calmly beneath his jacket.
He adjusted the holster strapped to his side, fingers checking the grip of his firearm.
Then he turned slightly, meeting Ryley's eyes through the rearview mirror. "Stay inside, sir. Please."
Still, Ryley's instincts warred against obedience.
The moment Oliver stepped out and shut the door, Ryley leaned forward and squinted out the windshield.
What he saw made his stomach twist.
A small body—limp and fragile—lay sprawled under the hazy yellow streetlight.
One tiny shoe had come off, flung toward the edge of the sidewalk.
The child couldn't be older than Rosie.
