I woke at two in the morning to eighteen missed calls and a text from my daughter, Claire. Dad, help! Come fast!! I did not stop to think. I pulled on yesterday’s jeans, left the porch light burning, and drove across town with my hands locked on the wheel. Every red light felt personal. When I reached her duplex, the living-room lamp was on and both cars were in the driveway. Claire opened the door in sweatpants, hair in a knot, looking more confused than frightened. Behind her stood her fiancé, Ryan, holding a remote. They stared at me as if I had broken in. She said she had never texted me. She showed me her phone. There was no outgoing message at 2:00 a.m. Ryan said they had been asleep. I checked the number twice. It was hers.

I searched the house anyway. Closets. The hall bath. The spare room she used as an office. Nothing was out of place except my own breathing. Claire grew sharp, then sorry. She thought someone had spoofed her number. Ryan offered coffee and a look that asked me to leave.