At 4 PM, I peeked through the blinds, hoping to see a car in the driveway.
At 5 PM, I sent a message to the family group chat:
“Drive safely.”
I saw Sarah typing — the three dots appeared — and then disappeared. No reply.
By 6 PM, I started calling.
Mark. Voicemail.
Jason. Voicemail.
Caleb. Voicemail.
Eliza. Voicemail.
Grant’s phone didn’t even ring.
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.
