“We haven’t identified her yet, but Alexia…” he paused, his eyes searching mine, “…she was wearing a red coat. Cherry red, just like yours.”

My knees went weak. Tom caught my elbow, steadying me. Through the windshield of his patrol car, I could see them photographing a shape covered with a white tarp.

“Tom,” I said, my voice thin, “Danny called me this morning. At five. He told me not to wear my red coat today.”

The sheriff’s expression shifted instantly from concerned neighbor to focused lawman. “Your grandson called you? What exactly did he say?”