My husband woke me up in the middle of the night. “Get up. Into the yard. Now.” We hid in the bushes in our pajamas, and when I saw who was entering the house, my hands began to tremble.

Grayson clutched my waist with trembling fingers and whispered, “Mom, I am scared,” which made my heart twist because he almost never admitted fear out loud.

“I know, sweetheart, just stay quiet,” I murmured as Colton led us barefoot through the hallway and out the back door into the cold night air that smelled faintly of damp soil and cut grass.

The yard behind our house in Cedar Ridge, Colorado was shadowed and still, and Colton steered us toward a thick cluster of overgrown shrubs near the wooden fence that bordered the alley, motioning for us to crouch low where the branches would hide us from view.

“Stay here and do not make a sound,” he whispered firmly while scanning the dark outline of the house as if measuring every window and corner.

I wanted to demand answers because nothing about this made sense, yet the expression on his face stopped me from arguing since it was not panic but something colder and more calculated that unsettled me far more deeply.