The doorbell shattered the silence at 11:47 PM on a freezing Tuesday night—one of those moments that tells you life is about to split into a before and after. No one shows up that late with harmless news. A cold rush of dread hit me before I even reached the door.
Through the peephole, I saw my sister Rachel standing on the porch, trembling, and behind her a man in a wrinkled suit with the exhausted posture of someone who has delivered too many devastating messages.
I opened the door.
Rachel’s face was blotchy with tears.
“Melissa,” she whispered, “this is Detective Morrison.”
He stepped forward, carrying a manila folder like a weight he wished he didn’t have to hold.
“Ms. Patterson,” he said softly, “we have an update about your brother.”
My throat closed. “Is he alive?”
He didn’t need to answer. His silence did it for him.
“We found him earlier today. I’m very sorry.”
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