Instead I asked, “Have you called the police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She’s our daughter.”
“Mom.”
“She’ll come back.”
“Mom.”
“I can’t do that to her.”
“She stole thirty-two thousand dollars.”
“Your father is furious.”
“Where is Dad?”
“Driving around looking for her.”
“That’s useless.”
“I know.”
I stood.
“Send me screenshots. Tell Dad to come home. Call the police.”
“Ian—”
“Mom, stop protecting her.”
“She’s scared.”
“She stole from you.”
“She has nowhere to go.”
“She had thirty days.”
“She doesn’t have money.”
“She has thirty-two thousand dollars now.”
Mom cried harder.
I hated myself for the sarcasm.
I softened.
“Mom. Listen to me.”
She sniffed.
“She needs consequences more than she needs rescue.”
“What if something happens to her?”
“Then the police can help find her.”
There was a long silence.
Then Mom said quietly, “How did I let this happen?”
I didn’t answer quickly.
