“Do not tell me to stay calm!” I screamed, pushing his hands away. “My baby is in that house!”

We rushed out of the door into the freezing morning air.

The drive across the city was a blur of gray concrete, yellow streetlights, and the sound of the tires splashing against the wet asphalt.

Neither of us spoke.

I stared out the window, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario.

We pulled up to a small, unassuming ranch-style home in a quiet, working-class suburb.

The front door was slightly ajar, the wooden frame splintered around the latch.

I did not wait for Dante or Marcus.

I threw my car door open and ran up the damp grass.

“Sophia, wait!” Dante shouted behind me, but I ignored him.

I pushed the front door open, the smell of gunpowder and metallic copper hitting my nose immediately.

The living room was in complete disarray.

A lamp was shattered on the floor, and a wooden chair lay on its side, one of its legs snapped in half.

On the rug lay Mrs. Patel’s knitting bag, the colorful wool yarn unspooled and stained with a dark patch of wet blood.