“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.
