At 3 a.m., my grandson appeared at my door—mud-streaked, trembling, terror in his eyes. “Please, save me,” he whispered. “Dad h!t me… because I saw something.”

“I went to the basement,” he whispered. “I hid behind the heater. Dad was there… with the big rug from the hallway. He was rolling it up.” His voice broke. “Grandma… there was a foot. Mom’s foot. She wasn’t moving.”

The room went silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

“Are you sure?” I asked carefully.

He nodded frantically. “Then he saw me. He dragged me upstairs and hit me. Said if I told anyone, I’d end up in the rug too.”

I closed my eyes for a fraction of a second.

Daniel Cross. My son-in-law. A respected prosecutor. A man everyone trusted.

A man who just made a fatal mistake.

I checked the clock. 3:15 a.m.

If Ethan had escaped through a window, Daniel would already know. He would be coming.

I turned toward the dark window. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t the frail old woman anymore.

That identity had always been a cover.

I walked to the bookshelf and pulled out an old hardcover novel. Inside the hollowed pages rested something far more useful—a compact pistol and a secure phone.

The weight in my hand felt familiar. Not comforting. Just… correct.