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 with
