The phone buzzed at exactly 2:07 a.m., its vibration sharp and insistent against the quiet of our bedroom. I surfaced from sleep slowly, tangled in the heavy fog that comes from being pulled out of a dream too abruptly. For a second, I considered letting it ring, assuming it was a wrong number or some automated call that slipped through the silence of the night. But something about the timing made my chest tighten. Without checking the caller ID, I answered, my voice thick with sleep. There was no greeting on the other end, no hesitation. A woman’s voice snapped through the line, tense and controlled, as if she had rehearsed this moment. “Stay away from Max and his family,” she said, every word clipped and sharp. “Or I’ll tell your husband everything.” My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it felt physical, painful. “I think you have the wrong—” I began, but the line went dead. The call ended as abruptly as it began, leaving nothing behind but silence and the sound of my own breathing. I stared at the dark ceiling, my mind scrambling to catch up. Max. The name meant nothing to me. I didn’t know anyone named Max.