I locked the door behind him and sank onto the couch. What happened at that party? And how did an eight-year-old boy know to warn me? The doorbell rang again. This time, it was the police.

“Mrs. Bell,” the officer said, his face calm but his eyes sharp. “There was an incident at your son’s residence. We understand you were present.”

“I left about thirty minutes before whatever happened.”

They exchanged a look. “Do you mind telling us why you left?”

I hesitated. “My grandson asked me to leave. He looked scared.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. He just said I had to leave.”

The male officer scribbled in his notepad. “And you’ve heard nothing since?”

“He messaged me,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “He said not to come back.”

That made them both go still. “Can we see the message?” the female officer asked. I showed them my phone. “Ma’am,” the male officer said, his voice grave, “you were very lucky.”

“Why? What happened?”

“There was an altercation at the party,” the female officer said gently. “Someone laced several of the drinks. We believe it was targeted, premeditated.”