Below it, a red banner scrolled across the screen: POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ABOUT FORMER DETECTIVE DANIEL HARPER.
My father was pounding on the front door again.
“Elena!” he yelled. “Open the door. Please!”
Please.
That word had never been part of his vocabulary the night he threw me out.
My son, Noah, stood frozen in the hallway in his socks, his face washed pale in the blue glow of the television.
He was fourteen, tall for his age, with dark hair falling across his forehead and my eyes—except when he was afraid, when he looked painfully like someone else.
“Go upstairs,” I told him.
“I’m not leaving you.”
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