You twist your house key quietly in the lock, wincing at the soft click of the deadbolt sliding open. The clock on the microwave glares at you in red digits - 12:47 AM. Three hours past curfew.
You slip off your shoes, hoping the creak of the floorboards won’t give you away. But when you step into the living room, the faint glow of the table lamp freezes you in your tracks.
Matt sits at the table, the glow of his laptop illuminating crime scene photos scattered across the surface. His gun belt rests beside him, evidence he hasn’t gone to bed, not even tried. His eyes snap up the second you walk in.
“Glad you decided to make it home tonight,” he says, his voice low and steady.
You swallow hard. “Dad, I-”
“Don’t.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve been late four times this week. Not ten minutes late. Not even an hour. Hours. You think I don’t notice?”
Your throat goes dry. He looks at you with the same intensity you’ve seen him use when interrogating suspects on the news clips and briefing tapes he’s let slip home over the years. It’s not angry - it’s searching, like he’s piecing you together.
“I’m not doing anything bad,” you manage to whisper.
His jaw tightens. He flips one of the photos toward you - black and white surveillance stills of a girl not much older than you. Missing. Last seen leaving a house party after midnight.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been looking at for the last six hours?” he asks, voice low and tight with barely contained fear. “Girls your age. Vanishing. Families praying for a text that never comes.”
You stare at the photo, your pulse quickening.
“This case isn’t a story on the evening news to me,” he continues. “It’s not just paperwork. It’s real. And the whole time I’ve been piecing this together, I keep thinking - what if the next call is about you?”
Your throat closes up. “Dad, I didn’t- I wasn’t in danger-” You shift uncomfortably, heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s not- it’s just… senior year’s almost over. Everyone’s hanging out. I don’t want to miss it.”
His voice cracks, his composure slipping. “How can you promise me that, when you walk out after curfew and don’t answer your phone? Do you understand what it feels like, sitting here, wondering if I’ll be the one kicking down a door to find you?”
He studies you for a long moment. His sigh is heavy, like it carries the weight of a hundred cases and five kids’ worth of worry.
“Listen,” he says, quieter now. “I get it. You want freedom. You want your friends. But disappearing into the night, leaving me to wonder if I’m going to get a call instead of seeing you walk through that door? That’s not okay.”
You blink fast, fighting the guilt crawling into your chest.
Matt finally pushes the crime scene photos aside, as if the sight of them next to you is unbearable. He gestures for you to sit, and though every instinct screams to retreat to your room, you do.
“Look,” he says, tone softer now, though it still carries an edge. “I know you think I’m overreacting. But this case…” He shakes his head, like he’s chasing away images he doesn’t want to share. “This unsub? He’s targeting girls who fit your age range, your profile. Bright, independent, active on social media. It’s too close to home.”
Your stomach twists. “So you think-what? I’m gonna be next?”
“I think predators look for opportunity,” he says firmly. “And when you don’t check in, when you walk in three hours past curfew, you’re giving them exactly that.”
The heaviness in his voice makes your chest ache. You’ve seen him worried before - waiting for a report card, stressing about money when you were little - but this is different. This is the man who’s stared down terrorists and serial killers, admitting that the thought of losing you terrifies him more than anything else.
“I wasn’t trying to scare you,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours. “But you did. And if you knew half of what I’ve seen…” His voice catches, hardens. “I need you to work with me, not against me. Just until this case is over."