The taxi driver hesitated before pulling away from the curb. He looked in his rearview mirror at the elderly woman standing on the sidewalk, leaning heavily on a cane, a small hospital bag at her feet.
“Are you sure you’re okay, ma’am?” he asked through the open window. “It looks like nobody is home.”
Martha forced a smile, though the cold autumn wind was biting through her thin coat. “I’m fine, young man. My son… he must have just stepped out. Thank you.”
As the taxi drove away, the smile vanished from Martha’s face. She was seventy-two years old. She had just spent two weeks in the cardiac ward recovering from a minor heart attack. She had called her son, Kevin, three times to tell him she was being discharged. He hadn’t answered.
She turned to the house. It was a beautiful, two-story colonial estate that she and her late husband, Arthur, had bought forty years ago. It was the place where they had raised Kevin, where they had celebrated Christmases, and where Arthur had taken his last breath six months ago.
Martha walked up the path, her legs trembling with weakness. She reached into her purse for her key. She slid it into the lock.
It didn’t turn.
She frowned, jiggling it. It wouldn’t go in. She stepped back and looked at the brass hardware. It was new. Shiny, scratch-free, and completely alien to her key.
Confusion began to set in, followed immediately by a cold dread. Then, she saw it.
Taped to the heavy oak door was a piece of printer paper. The corners were flapping in the wind. The message was typed in bold, aggressive capital letters:
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