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.” 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. I locked the door and got into the police car. During the drive, anxiety twisted inside me. “Where are we going?” I asked. “Not far.” “Not far where?” “Somewhere safe.” My phone buzzed. A message from Mark appeared: “Mom, please don’t panic. Just trust us.” Trust them — after four hours of silence. Finally, the police car pulled into the parking lot of a community center I recognized.