“Pack a bag,” he finally said, his voice low and urgent. “Right now.”

“What? Owen, what’s wrong?”

“We’re leaving,” he insisted, his gaze flicking toward the windows. “Don’t call anyone. We go now.”

“Owen, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“Grandma, please,” his voice cracked, “just trust me. We need to leave this house immediately.”

I stared at him. My grandson, a sturdy twenty-four-year-old who never scared easily, had hands that were shaking. “This is my home,” I whispered, the words feeling flimsy and useless.

“I know, but it’s not safe here. Not anymore.”