“She didn’t tell me,” I said.
“She needed space.” His eyes cooled. “From everyone.”
Behind him, his sister Vanessa stepped into view, barefoot, wearing Emily’s blue cardigan.
My daughter’s cardigan.
“Claire,” Vanessa said sweetly, “you shouldn’t just show up. It’s unhealthy.”
I looked at the sweater, then at her mouth.
“Take that off.”
She laughed. “Excuse me?”
Mark leaned closer. “You’re tired. Go home before you embarrass yourself.”
There it was—the voice men use when they think age has made a woman harmless.
I had heard it in courtrooms for thirty-one years, from liars with clean collars and dirty hands.
“I want to see Emily,” I said.
“You can’t.” His tone sharpened. “She left. She asked me not to tell you where.”
“Show me her message.”
“I deleted it.”
“Convenient.”
His smile vanished. “Get off my porch.”
I stepped back slowly, like a defeated mother accepting it. Vanessa smirked.
But as I turned toward my car, I heard it.
A muffled moan.
From the locked garage.
My hand froze on the car door.
Mark’s face shifted before he could stop it. Fear flashed, then anger.
“Old pipes,” he said.
I nodded once.
Then I drove away.
At the corner, I parked beneath a dead streetlight, turned off my headlights, and opened the hidden recording app on my phone.
