B. A. Paris

The second officer - the driver - approaches. 'Sir, step away from the bike,' she barks. 'Sir, did you hear me? Step away from the bike.'
I try to unfurl my hands from the handlebars, unstick my legs from the bike. But I seem to be welded to it.
'Sir, if you don't comply, I'm going to have to arrest you.'
'We're going to have to arrest him anyway,' the first officer says.
He takes a step towards me and the sight of handcuffs dangling from his belt shocks me into speech.
I flip up my helmet. 'Wait!'
There must be something in my voice, or maybe they read something in my face, because both police officers pause.
'Go on.'
'It's about Marnie.'
'Marnie?'
'Yes.'
'Who's Marnie?'
'My daughter.' I swallow painfully. 'Marnie's my daughter.'
They exchange a glance. 'Where is your daughter, sir?'