She turned to face the house. It was a beautiful, two-story colonial estate that she and her late husband, Arthur, had bought forty years ago. It sat on the hill like a fortress of memory. It was the place where they had raised Kevin, where they had celebrated countless Christmases, and where Arthur had taken his last breath six months ago in the master bedroom upstairs.

Martha walked up the brick path, her legs trembling with weakness. Every step was a battle against gravity. She reached into her purse, her fingers fumbling past the bottle of nitroglycerin pills to find her key. She slid it into the lock.

It didn’t turn.

She frowned, jiggling it. It wouldn’t go in. She stepped back, squinting through her bifocals at the brass hardware. It was new. Shiny, scratch-free, and completely alien to her key.

Confusion began to set in, a fog rolling over her mind, followed immediately by a cold, sharp dread. Then, she saw it.

Taped to the heavy oak door was a piece of white printer paper. The corners were flapping aggressively in the wind, the sound like a playing card in bicycle spokes. The message was typed in bold, sans-serif capital letters: