But something in the child’s tone — restrained fear, a quiver in his voice — made them more alert than usual.

The car slowly approached a two-story house in a quiet neighborhood. From the outside, everything looked perfect: neat lawn, flower beds, locked door. But inside, there was an eerie silence.

The officers knocked. A few seconds — nothing. Then the door opened, and a boy of about seven appeared in the doorway. Dark hair, clean clothes, a serious gaze like that of an adult.

— Were you the one who called us? — the officer asked gently.

The boy nodded, stepped aside to let them in, and said quietly:

— My parents… they’re there. — He pointed to the half-open door at the end of the hallway.