My six-year-old daughter came home from her school trip in tears. “Mommy, my stomach hurts,”

I pushed past the stunned receptionist, my mind racing. My heart pounded in sync with my footsteps as I reached the elevator and jabbed the button repeatedly. The elevator seemed to take an eternity, and each second was filled with dread. What had Ethan gotten himself into? His cryptic note, the suspicious documents, and now the police involvement suggested something serious.

As the elevator doors slid open, I was met with a flurry of activity. People were clustered in the hallway, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern. I pushed through, barely acknowledging their stares. My focus was solely on finding Ethan and getting answers.

I approached his office, but before I could reach the door, I was intercepted by a stern-looking officer. “Ma’am, you can’t go in there,” he said firmly, holding up a hand to stop me.