The phone didn’t just ring; it screamed.
In the suffocating silence of a Tuesday morning, at exactly 5:03 A.M., the sound was an absolute intrusion, a violent tear in the fabric of the dark. I bolted upright in my bed, my heart instantly hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. No good news ever travels at five in the morning.
I fumbled blindly for the device on the nightstand, knocking over a glass of water in the process. The screen glowed with two words that made my stomach drop: Unknown Number.
“Hello?” My voice was thick with sleep and a rapidly rising dread.
“Is this Sarah Hayes?” The voice on the other end was male, clipped, and deeply professional, but it carried an undercurrent of raw urgency that made the blood in my veins turn to ice.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Ma’am, this is Officer Davis with the County Sheriff’s Department. I need you to come to the bus stop at the intersection of Miller Road and Route 9. Immediately.”
“Why?” I was already out of bed, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder, pulling on a pair of stiff jeans with shaking hands. “Is it Chloe? Is it my daughter? Oh my god, what happened?”
“Just come, Ma’am. And drive carefully. The roads are bad.”
