The Call at 1:47 A.M.

“Grandpa? I’m really hot. And my head hurts.”

Those were the first words my eight-year-old granddaughter said when she called me at 1:47 in the morning.

I sat straight up in bed.

The blue numbers on my alarm clock were the only light in the room, and for a second I thought I had misunderstood her.

“Chloe? Where are you?”

Her breathing sounded slow and rough.

“At home.”

I reached for my glasses.

“Where’s your mom? Where’s Dad?”

There was a pause.

“They left.”

That made no sense.

My son Patrick and his wife, Samantha, had told everyone they were taking Chloe’s ten-year-old brother, Wyatt, to Orlando for his birthday. Chloe had supposedly come down with a mild cold and was staying with Samantha’s sister.

I swung my feet onto the floor.

“Is Aunt Rachel there?”

“No.”

“Are you alone?”

Another pause.

“I think so.”

I was already pulling on my pants.

My wife, Martha, had been gone almost four years. She had always been the calm one when the grandchildren were sick. I was the grandfather who showed up with popsicles and watched cartoons from the doorway.

But Martha wasn’t there.

So I grabbed my keys.

“Chloe, stay on the phone with me.”

“Okay.”

The drive across Columbus normally took twenty-five minutes.

I made it in eighteen.

Patrick’s driveway was empty.

No SUV. No Samantha’s sedan.

The porch light was off.

I knocked first, then used the emergency key Patrick had given me years earlier.

The house was almost completely dark.

“Chloe?”

No answer.

Then I heard a weak sound from the kitchen.

I found her on the floor beside the island.

She was wearing pink pajama pants and one sock. Her hair was damp against her forehead.

I knelt beside her and touched her face.

She was burning up.

“Grandpa.”

“I’m here.”

Her eyes barely opened.

“I tried to get water.”

A plastic cup was lying several feet away.

I reached for my phone.

That was when I saw the medicine bottle.

It stood beside the sink.

Orange plastic. White cap. Prescription label.

I picked it up.

The name printed on it wasn’t Chloe’s.

It wasn’t Patrick’s or Samantha’s either.

I took a picture of the label before touching anything else.

Then I noticed the folded sheet of paper underneath it.

My name was written across the front.

DAD.

I unfolded it.

Patrick’s handwriting.

Dad, if Chloe calls you, don’t panic.

I stopped reading and looked down at my granddaughter.

Her eyes had closed again.

I kept going.

She has a fever and gets dramatic when she’s sick. We gave her something that should help her sleep. We didn’t want to cancel Wyatt’s birthday trip over a cold.

My hand tightened around the paper.

Then came the sentence I read twice.

Please don’t make this into a bigger situation than it is.

And underneath that:

Also, if Chloe says anything strange about the hallway closet, ignore it. She’s been making things up lately.

I put the letter on the counter and called 911.

The dispatcher began asking questions.

Chloe’s age.

Her symptoms.

Whether she was conscious.

What medication she might have taken.

I read the label from the bottle.

The dispatcher’s voice changed.

“Sir, do not give her anything else. Paramedics are on the way.”

I sat on the floor beside Chloe and kept one hand on her shoulder.

“Grandpa?”

“Right here.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“Nobody’s mad at you.”

She swallowed.

“Wyatt tried to help.”

I looked toward the hallway.

“Wyatt?”

Her eyes closed again.

Then I heard it.

A dull knock.

I stopped breathing for a second.

Another knock.

Not from the front door.

From inside the house.

The Closet Patrick Told Me to Ignore

I followed the sound into the hallway.

There was a narrow utility closet between the laundry room and downstairs bathroom.

I tried the knob.

Locked.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then three quick knocks came from the other side.

“Wyatt?”

A small voice answered.

“Grandpa?”

I nearly dropped my phone.

“Move away from the door.”

The lock was one of those simple interior privacy locks. I found a small screwdriver in Patrick’s kitchen junk drawer and worked it open.

Wyatt was sitting on the floor.

He wore jeans, a gray Ohio State sweatshirt, and only one sneaker.

An iPad was pressed against his chest.

His face looked pale.

For several seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he stood and wrapped both arms around me.

“They came back?”

“Who?”

“Dad and Mom.”

“No.”

His grip loosened.

I crouched in front of him.

“Patrick told everybody you were in Florida.”

Wyatt stared at me.

“We never went.”

Behind me, I could hear the distant approach of sirens.

“Why were you in there?”

Wyatt looked toward the kitchen.

“Dad said I was lying.”

“About what?”

His eyes dropped to the tablet.

The screen was black.

“I recorded it.”

I held out my hand.

He immediately pulled the tablet closer.

“No.”

“Wyatt, I’m not taking it away.”

“Dad said if anybody watched it, people would come take us.”

I stayed crouched.