“Dad… please. Please come get me.”There are tones a parent never forgets. That wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t ordinary tears. It was fear — the kind that crawls under your skin and stays there.By the time I reached her in-laws’ house, the sky was still black and silent. The neighborhood looked peaceful, almost staged — manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, warm lights glowing behind heavy curtains. But peace can be a costume.I didn’t use the doorbell.I slammed my fist against the oak door. Three hard knocks that echoed down the quiet street.Open it.he wait stretched long enough for my imagination to turn savage. I could see shadows moving behind the frosted glass. They weren’t asleep. They were deciding.The lock clicked. The door opened a few inches, held by a chain.Linda — my daughter’s mother-in-law — peered out, perfectly dressed for four in the morning. Not startled. Not confused. Irritated.“It’s the middle of the night,” she said sharply. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for Emily,” I replied.“She’s resting,” Linda said smoothly. “She had a little breakdown earlier. Emotional outburst. She needs quiet.”“She called me.”A flicker crossed her face.“This is a private matter,” she said. “You’re interfering.”“I’m her father,” I said evenly. “Open the door.”She measured me, trying to determine if I was bluffing.I wasn’t.The chain slid free.Inside, the house smelled like stale coffee and something sour — as if someone had tried to clean panic away with polish.Mark stood by the fireplace, pale and stiff. He wouldn’t meet my eyes.And then I saw her.Emily wasn’t on the couch.he was on the floor.Curled into the corner between the sofa and the wall, knees tight against her chest, shoulders hunched inward like she was trying to disappear.“Em,” I breathed.She lifted her head.Her face was swollen. One eye nearly closed from bruising. Her lip split. But worse than the injuries was her expression — hollow, watchful, like something wild that had learned not to trust hands.