But the second I stepped across the threshold of my childhood home, every instinct in my body told me something was terribly wrong.
It was two o’clock on a sunny afternoon.
Yet every heavy curtain in the living room had been pulled shut, leaving the house trapped in a dim, suffocating gloom.
The air smelled sharply of cheap lemon bleach—as though someone had desperately tried to cover something sour underneath.
And standing in the doorway, physically blocking my path, was my brother Julian’s wife, Chloe.
One hand rested casually against the frame.
Sunlight caught the thick diamond tennis bracelet around her wrist.
I had never seen it before.
“Elena.”
Chloe smiled, but her eyes remained cold.
“You really should have called before driving all this way. Your father’s mind has been slipping badly lately. Strangers and surprises make him agitated.”
Strangers.
My 78-year-old father recoiled in terror the moment I reached for the buttons of his heavy winter coat.
