I looked at the clock. The food was ready, the table was set, but at this rate, half the chairs would be empty.
I hung up and adjusted the serving spoon in the potatoes.
The sun dipped lower.
Then my phone chimed again.
It was a message from my grandkids:
“Hey, Grandpa.
So sorry, but we’ve got school stuff and plans. We’ll FaceTime later, okay?”
I stared at the table I’d laid with all the decorations Margaret always used; the dishes I’d laid out, ready to eat, and the empty chairs. Unshed tears burned my eyes.
A small laugh slipped out, shaky and hollow.
I grabbed a dish towel to start clearing the table.
Then, someone knocked on my door. It wasn’t a polite, neighborly knock either.
This was a harsh and authoritative rat-tat-tat.
The police were on my doorstep, and they looked like they meant business.
One of them stepped forward.
“There must be some kind of misunderstanding—”
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