“Emily is sleeping,” she lied. The lie was so smooth, so practiced, it almost impressed me. “She had a bit of an episode earlier. She’s emotional. She needs rest, not her father barging in like a maniac.”
“She called me,” I said. “She asked me to come. Now, you can undo that chain, or I can kick this door in and we can explain the property damage to the police. Your choice.”
Linda’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She looked over her shoulder, exchanging a glance with someone I couldn’t see.
“This is a private family matter,” she stated, her voice icy. “You are an outsider here. You’ll only make it worse.”
“I am her father,” I said, stepping closer to the crack in the door. “I am not an outsider. Open. The. Door.”
She hesitated for one second more, measuring me, realizing I wasn’t leaving. With a huff of disgust, she slid the chain off and swung the door open. She didn’t step back to let me in; she stood her ground, forcing me to brush past her.
I stepped into the foyer. The house smelled of stale coffee and something sour—like sweat and lemon polish trying to mask it.
“Mark!” Linda called out, her voice sharp. “He’s here.”
I walked into the living room. It was a showroom of beige furniture and expensive art, but the atmosphere was suffocating.
Mark was standing by the fireplace. He looked pale, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He didn’t look at me. He was staring at a spot on the rug, his jaw working.
And then I saw her.
Emily was on the floor.
She wasn’t sitting on the couch. She wasn’t in a chair. She was curled up in the corner between the sofa and the wall, knees pulled to her chest, making herself as small as physically possible.
“Em?” I said. The word came out like a prayer.
She looked up.
The breath left my lungs in a rush.
