The message was a photograph.

It was an old, faded picture of Rose’s house from twenty years ago, with a red circle drawn around the front door.

Beneath the photo, a single line of text appeared.

*He didn’t act alone.*

The blue and red lights washed over the interior of our car, casting strobes of crimson and violet across Rose’s terrified face.

The trooper’s car door slammed shut.

A tall officer stepped out into the biting wind, his flashlight beam cutting a yellow path through the exhaust fumes.

“Stay in your vehicles,” his voice boomed through a megaphone.

I stared at the screen of my phone, the faded photo of Rose’s old house still glowing in my palm.

Rose leaned her head against the steering wheel, her shoulders shaking with a quiet, ragged sob.

“He’s going to pay,” she whispered.

Beside me, Claire squeezed my hand so hard her knuckles turned white.

“Mom, what is happening?” Claire asked, her voice cracking in the dark.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, though my own voice lacked any real conviction.