"My eleven-year-old grandson pushed a five-year-old girl onto a stack of patio cushions in front of twenty guests, and my son called him jealous before anyone had asked why.

The snow continued to fall through the night, blanketing Austin in a pristine, glittering white silence. By Sunday morning, the world outside was blindingly bright, the sun reflecting off the frosted rooftops and heavy pine branches.

We were gathered around the dining table, nursing mugs of hot chocolate topped with mountains of whipped cream and eating stacks of blueberry pancakes that Claire had whipped up from scratch. The atmosphere was lazy, comfortable, and saturated with the quiet joy of a snow day.

Suddenly, the tranquil silence of the morning was shattered by the sharp, persistent ringing of the landline phone in the hallway.

We all froze. In the age of cell phones, nobody called the landline unless it was an emergency—or a robocall from a telemarketer trying to sell extended car warranties.

Grant frowned, setting his coffee mug down on the saucer with a soft clink. "Who the hell is calling at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning after a blizzard?" he muttered, pushing his chair back and walking out into the hallway.

We listened as Grant picked up the receiver. His deep voice murmured a cautious hello, followed by a long, heavy silence. The cheerful clinking of silverware in the dining room stopped instantly. Mason looked up from his plate, his eyes narrowing slightly, while Claire exchanged a worried glance with me across the table.

"Yeah? Who is this?" Grant’s voice suddenly sharpened, taking on a hard, defensive edge that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. "Where did you get this number?"

I pushed my chair back and stood up, walking toward the hallway just as Grant turned around, the color completely drained from his face. He looked like he had just been struck by lightning.

"Grant? Who is it?" I asked, my voice tight with sudden apprehension.

Grant lowered the phone slowly, his fingers trembling as he pressed the disconnect button. He stared at the plastic receiver in his hand as if it were a venomous snake.

"It wasn't a telemarketer," Grant whispered, his voice hollow, shaking in a way I hadn't heard since the day Elena walked out six years ago.

"Then who was it, son?" I demanded, stepping closer and gripping his arm.

"It was the emergency room at St. David’s Hospital," Grant said, his eyes glassy and unseeing as he looked at me. "They found my number written down in the back of an old address book on a patient who was brought in an hour ago after being pulled from a freezing car off the highway."

My breath hitched. "Who, Grant? Who was in the car?"