I found my grandson, Jamie, near the buffet table. His little face lit up when he saw me, and he ran into my arms, but something in his eyes didn’t match his smile. There was fear, real and sharp. He held on to me a little too tightly. “Grandma,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music, “you need to leave. Right now.”

I blinked. “What?”

He looked around, his eyes darting like a trapped bird. “Please,” he said, “don’t ask why. Just go.”

I stared at him, stunned. My eight-year-old grandson, trembling, begging me to leave his own mother’s birthday party. I stepped back. Something was terribly wrong. “What’s going on, Jamie?” I asked again. But he was already pulling away, melting back into the crowd as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just whispered a warning that sent a shard of ice down my spine.