By 7 PM, the food was cold.
By 8 PM, the birthday candles were nearly melted.
By 9 PM, I sat alone at the head of the table, staring at six empty chairs. I told myself I was overreacting, but the silence felt painfully personal. I wiped tears with the napkin I had ironed that morning.
Then someone knocked on the door.
Not a friendly knock.
A firm, official one.
When I opened the door, a young police officer stood on the porch.
“Are you Linda?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He handed me a folded note. My name was written on the front in handwriting I recognized immediately — Grant’s.
The message read:
“Mom, don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to the officer and get in the car.”
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