The clock on the wall seemed to be actively mocking me, each tick of the second hand stretching into an eternity.

I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time, the blank screen a fresh disappointment.

No calls from him.

Mom sat calmly on the sofa, immersed in a television drama, a stark contrast to the storm of worry raging inside me.

Dad had just left to bring me some homemade soup for dinner, leaving us in a bubble of tense quiet.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Mom said, her eyes still on the screen but her attention fully on me. “Malcolm is likely just buried in the investigation. A good...