Three dots appeared from Sarah, then vanished. No message.
At six, I called Mark. Voicemail. Jason. Voicemail. Caleb. Voicemail. Eliza. Voicemail. Grant. Straight to voicemail, like it didn’t even ring.
At seven, the food cooled. At eight, the candles burned low. At nine, I sat at the head of the table and stared at six empty chairs. I tried to tell myself I was being dramatic. But the silence felt personal. I cried into the napkin I had ironed that morning.
Then there was a knock at the door. Not a friendly knock. A firm, official knock. I wiped my face fast and opened the door.
A police officer stood on my porch. Young. Clean cut. Serious.
Just listen to him and get in the car.
“Are you Linda?” he asked.
I nodded because my throat wouldn’t cooperate.
He held out a folded note. “This is for you.”
My name was on it. The handwriting was familiar enough to make my hands go numb. Grant. I unfolded it right there, under the porch light.
Mom don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to him and get in the car.
“I can’t discuss details here.”
For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Grant was my wild one. The one I worried about when my phone rang late.
The officer said, gently, “Ma’am, I need you to come with me.”
I looked up, panicked. “Is my son alive?”
His eyes flicked away for half a second. Half a second is all it takes to break a mother.
“Please,” I whispered. “Is Grant alive?”
He swallowed. “Ma’am, I can’t discuss details here. I just need you to come with me.”
The officer got in front and started driving.
I glanced back into my house. The table was set. The food was waiting. The candles were dying.
“My children were supposed to be here,” I heard myself say.
He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”
I should’ve called Mark, anyway. Instead I grabbed my cardigan, locked the door out of habit, and got into the cruiser. The back seat smelled like disinfectant and old fear. The door shut with a heavy click that made my stomach drop.
The officer got in front and started driving.
“Just tell me if my son is okay.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Not far.”
“Not far where?”
He glanced up at the rearview mirror. “Someplace safe.”
“Safe from what?” My voice rose. “Did Grant get hurt. Did he do something.”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Ma’am,” he said, calm but firm. “Please.”
“Don’t ‘please’ me. Just tell me if my son is okay.”
He paused. “You’ll have answers soon. I promise.”
My phone buzzed. A text from Mark. “Mom please don’t freak out. Just trust us.” Trust us. After four hours of silence.
I typed back. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Delivered, but not read.
“Are they in danger?”
I stared at the back of the officer’s head. “You know my kids.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly, “Yes, ma’am.”
My heart lurched. “Are they in danger?”
“No.”
“Then why am I in a police car?”
Through the glass, I saw movement.
He exhaled like he was trying not to say the wrong thing. “Just hold on.”
The police officer turned into a parking lot. A community center I recognized. The one where I used to sit on hard bleachers to support my kids.
Cars were parked out front. Cars I knew. Mark’s SUV. Sarah’s sedan. Jason’s truck.
My mouth went dry. “What is this?”
The officer parked and came around to open my door. He offered a hand. I ignored it and climbed out on my own, legs shaky. He guided me toward the entrance. Through the glass, I saw movement.
Caleb went pale.
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