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Eliza.
Voicemail.
Sarah.
Nothing.
Then I called Grant.
Straight to voicemail.
Grant had always been my wild one. He was the child who could make me laugh and worry within the same five minutes.
By seven o’clock, the food had cooled.
By eight, the candles had burned low.
At nine, I finally sat at the head of the table.
Six empty chairs stared back at me.
I tried to convince myself that I was being overly emotional.
Maybe they were busy.
Maybe someone had forgotten.
Maybe they had planned to come later.
But birthdays have a strange way of making silence feel personal.
I wiped my eyes with one of the cloth napkins I had ironed that morning.
Then came the knock.
It wasn’t the cheerful knock of a child arriving late.
It was firm.
Official.
I quickly wiped my face and opened the door.
A young police officer stood on my porch.
“Are you Linda?” he asked.
I nodded.
He held out a folded note.
“This is for you.”
My hands became cold when I saw my name on the paper.
The handwriting was familiar.
Grant.
I unfolded it.
Mom, don’t call anyone. Don’t ask questions. Just listen to him and get in the car.
My heart seemed to stop.
I looked at the officer.
“Is my son okay?”
He hesitated.
That tiny pause frightened me more than anything he could have said.
“Please,” I whispered. “Is Grant alive?”
“He’ll explain everything,” the officer said.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace safe.”
“Safe from what?”
He didn’t answer.
I grabbed my cardigan, locked the house, and climbed into the back of the police car.
The entire drive felt unreal.
I kept looking out the window, trying to understand how my birthday had turned into something I couldn’t explain.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Mark.
“Mom, please don’t freak out. Just trust us.”
I stared at the screen.
“WHERE ARE YOU?” I typed.
The message showed as delivered.
No response.
A few minutes later, the officer turned into a parking lot.