By the time the last gunshot echoed away, the birthday candles were still unlit. Parents held trembling children behind parked cars, some whispering prayers, others frozen in disbelief as officers rushed into the bullet-riddled home. The smell of frosting mixed with the metallic sting of blood, a scene so violently wrong that even seasoned first responders struggled to describe it.
Now, Stockton waits in a stunned, aching quiet. Hospital rooms are crowded with families bracing for news, while detectives replay grainy surveillance clips frame by frame, searching for a face, a license plate, a reason. Neighbors leave flowers and stuffed animals near the house, careful not to cross the yellow tape. A child’s birthday banner still hangs in the yard, fluttering in the wind, a painful reminder of how ordinary the day was—until it wasn’t.
