“Yes,” he whimpered.
I threw myself into the driver’s seat, slamming the push-to-start button. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely grip the steering wheel. I lived twenty minutes away in good traffic. Today was Thursday. Rush hour was just beginning. It would take me at least twenty-five minutes to reach the suburban house my ex-wife, Jessica, had insisted on keeping in the divorce.
Twenty-five minutes was a death sentence. Travis could tear that house apart in five.
I grabbed my work cell phone from my briefcase, connected my personal phone to the car’s Bluetooth so I could keep hearing Noah’s ragged breathing, and dialed the only person who could get there faster.