My son came home unusually quiet — but when he refused to sit down, I knew something was terribly wrong.

SUNDAY CHECKPOINT

Sunday nights in Los Angeles always felt heavier than they should.

The heat clung to the air long after sunset, and the haze above the freeway smeared the sky into a tired blur of orange and gray. For most people, Sunday meant leftovers and early alarms.

For Michael Stone, it meant inspection.

At exactly 6:55 p.m., he turned his black SUV onto the narrow East Los Angeles street where his son stayed every other week. The cracked sidewalks and sagging fences were a world away from the glass-and-steel home Michael owned in Calabasas.

He never complained about the contrast.

Because on Sundays, only one thing mattered.

Leo.