On A Family Cruise, My Son Was Laughing. My Daughter-In-Law Was Taking Photos. The Waitress Came Close And Slipped Me A Note Under The Table. It Said: Call For Help. I Stayed Calm. I Tucked The Note And Nodded. Twenty Minutes Later, They Were Tight-Lipped In FRONT OF THE CREW.

Lyanna and Darren arrived late. She kissed me on the cheek and whispered that I looked well rested. Darren sat down heavily, rubbing his temples and muttering something about the motion of the waves.

I smiled politely and said nothing. The waiter came around, offering a house specialty. I declined the wine.

Lyanna insisted I try her ginger pear spritzer instead. I let her pour it into my glass and watched the liquid bubble slightly before settling flat. Halfway through the meal, I excused myself to the restroom, not because I needed to go, but because the fog in my head had returned, and I needed space.

The hallway outside the dining room was dim, lined with framed photos of famous ships and newspaper clippings from past voyages. As I walked back toward my seat, something caught my attention. A young waitress, probably no older than 22, stood at the edge of the room near the service cart.

She was folding napkins quickly, but her eyes followed Lyanna across the room. When I passed her, she looked directly at me, her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, as I reached my chair, I found something strange.

Tucked just beneath my folded napkin was a small piece of paper. No envelope, no name—just a torn edge and a few shaky words in pen. Call 911.

There is something in your tea. My throat tightened. For a moment, I thought my heart had stopped.

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