My chest tightened.
Grant had always been the reckless one, the son who worried me most when the phone rang late at night.
The officer spoke gently.
“Ma’am, I need you to come with me.”
My voice trembled.
“Is my son alive?”
He avoided my eyes for half a second — just long enough for panic to explode in my chest.
“Please,” I begged. “Is Grant alive?”
“I can’t discuss that here,” he said quietly. “But you need to come with me.”
I looked back into my house. The birthday table was still waiting. The candles were nearly burned down.
“My children were supposed to be here tonight,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
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