Instead, he was met with silence. And something far worse—fear.
Slowly, he turned toward the bedroom. Eight-year-old Sophie hovered just behind the door, half-concealed, her body turned away as if she might be yanked back at any second. Her shoulders were hunched, her head bowed, and her eyes stayed locked on the carpet, as though she hoped it might open up and hide her.
“Sophie,” Aaron said softly, forcing calm into his voice, even as his heart began to pound. “Hey. I’m here now. You can come to me.”
She stayed perfectly still.
He lowered the suitcase with care, as though even the smallest noise might frighten her, and moved toward her in slow, deliberate steps. When he knelt in front of her, she flinched—and that single reaction sent a surge of alarm through him.
“Where does it hurt, sweetheart?” he asked gently.
Her fingers knotted in the hem of her pajama top, pulling the fabric taut until her knuckles blanched. “My back,” she murmured. “It hurts all the time. Mommy said it was an accident. She told me not to tell you. She said you’d get mad… and that bad things would happen.”
A chill settled heavy in his chest.
