Part 2

By the time Hannah drove me back to Hawthorne Lane, my hands had gone numb in my lap.

The neighborhood looked exactly the way it always had: trimmed lawns, silent driveways, flags hanging from front porches, sprinklers ticking in perfect rhythm. Our house sat in the middle of the block with its white columns and pale blue shutters, pretending nothing was wrong. Only the yellow police tape across the front door broke the illusion.

Officer Daniel Ruiz met me beside the driveway. He was in his late thirties, calm-faced, with tired eyes that missed nothing.

“Emily Carter?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Thank you for coming. Your parents have been contacted?”

“I tried calling them,” I said. “They’re driving to the airport in Chicago. They haven’t answered since last night.”

Vanessa had answered once, only to hiss, “What did you do?” before hanging up.

Officer Ruiz led me carefully through the front door.

The house looked wrong in small, personal ways. Drawers stood open. Cushions were sliced. My mother’s decorative plates lay shattered across the hardwood. The family photos on the stair wall had been turned around, every smiling face pressed toward the paint.

Buster, our old golden retriever, lay in the laundry room with a bowl of water beside him. His tail thumped weakly when he saw me.

I dropped to my knees. “Hey, boy. I’m sorry.”

He smelled like fear and dust. His food bin had been dragged across the floor, but it was still sealed. Whoever had broken in had not come to feed him.

Officer Ruiz watched quietly. “Do you know anyone who would expect you to be here?”

“My family,” I said bitterly.

“Anyone outside the family?”

I thought of coworkers, old classmates, neighbors. No one who would write my name in a stranger’s house.

Then I saw the note.

It had been placed in the center of the dining room table like an invitation.

Emily was supposed to be here.

The handwriting was sharp and uneven, written in black marker. Beneath it was a second line.

Ask Richard why.

Richard was my father.

My pulse began hammering in my ears. “What does that mean?”

“That’s what we need to find out,” Officer Ruiz said.

At that moment, my phone rang. Dad.

I answered immediately. “Where are you?”

His voice came through tight and angry. “Why are police at my house?”

“Because someone broke in.”

Silence.

“Dad,” I said slowly, “the person left a note. It says to ask you why.”

Another silence. Longer.

Then my mother’s voice came from the background: “Richard, what did she say?”

My father did not answer her.

Instead, he said, “Emily, listen to me. Do not talk to the police about anything personal.”

Officer Ruiz looked at me.

My father continued, lower now. “I’ll handle this when I get back.”

Something in his tone made the room feel colder than the broken front door ever could.

“Handle what?” I asked.

He exhaled sharply. “Just do as I say.”

For the first time in my life, I did not.

I looked directly at Officer Ruiz and said, “Put it on speaker.”

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