layla

“I’d like to report a kidnapping,” I say to Officer Kramer, who’s returning from watching Scott leave the contents of his stomach in a row of bushes.

“Who was kidnapped?” he asks.

“Them,” I say, pointing to Brett’s car, where Ginny, Bill, and Trish are staring at us. “And him,” I add, pointing to Scott.

“Good news,” he replies. “Case solved. There they are. Looks like they’re fine.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I say. “The older lady, she’s my mother. Well, not literally. Technically, they’re all in-laws, but it feels much closer than that.”

The cop is staring at me, waiting for a punch line. He sighs and then begins speaking into the little radio mic on his shoulder.

“Female, approximately …”

“Twenty-seven,” I suggest helpfully.

“Twenty-nine!” Brett interjects. “Twenty-freakin’-nine and not one second younger!”

“Female, approximately… twenty-eight, initially reporting a two-oh-seven—”

“Is that kidnapping?” I interject. “Because this was definitely a two-oh-seven. He’ll say he was just going for a nice drive with the family, but this is a two-oh-seven all the way, and don’t waste money on a trial, because he’s guilty!”

“For God’s sake, Layla, we were on the way home!” Brett shouts. “You didn’t have to go all O.J. on us!”

“You stole them!” I scream, then wheel toward the cop. “What’s the code for human trafficking?” I lean toward his shoulder mic so the dispatcher can hear. “It’s a two-oh-seven in progress—and the suspect is a complete friggin’ jerk!”

The trooper shoots me an angry glare and lets go of the talk button on the mic. “Ma’am, I’m the one who gets to talk into the radio. Do that again and I’ll tell them I’ve got a three-ninety, possibly a fifty-one-fifty, and I’m bringing her in.”

I look questioningly to the lady cop, and she kindly tells me, “Drunk, possible mental case.” She leans closer. “Don’t worry, he knows you’re a ten-ninety F-one.”

I give her the same bewildered look.

“Domestic dispute, no violence alleged.”