“Dad, don’t go… Grandma takes me to a secret place when you’re gone, and she says I’m never allowed to tell you.” By that afternoon, I was following them myself—and what I saw made every instinct in me turn cold.
PART 1
That morning, I stood in our Greenwich kitchen pouring warm milk into Fiona’s favorite panda mug while my driver waited outside. I was supposed to be at Teterboro within the hour, then in a Chicago conference room by noon, closing an acquisition worth more money than my father had earned in his lifetime.
But Fiona had barely touched breakfast.
Normally, my seven-year-old daughter turned mornings into comedy shows, arguing that waffles were “morally superior” to toast and secretly feeding bacon to our golden retriever. That morning, she sat with her shoulders hunched, dragging her fork through untouched eggs.
“Sweetheart, you need to eat.”
She stared down at her mug.
“Daddy?”
Something about her voice made me sit across from her.
“Yes, baby?”
“Do you really have to go?”
I smiled gently. “Only two nights. I’ll be home before your spelling test.”
Her lip trembled.
“Grandma Wendy says promises don’t count when grown-ups have important things.” I felt irritation rise immediately.
