Is she laughing at my son? he thought, gripping his leather briefcase until his knuckles turned white.
Mocking his condition while I’m not here.
Fury blinded him. He imagined Emily on the phone with a boyfriend, ignoring his child strapped into a wheelchair, laughing at the easy life she lived on his money.
He moved fast, forgetting stealth. His hard-soled shoes echoed down the hallway like a judge’s gavel delivering a sentence.
He reached the kitchen doorway, ready to shout, ready to fire her, ready to protect his son.
“What the hell is—”
The words died in his throat.
Daniel stopped dead.
The briefcase slipped from his sweaty fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud no one heard—because the scene before him was so surreal, it froze time.
The kitchen—normally sterile, all stainless steel and order—was bathed in golden sunlight pouring through the window.
And there, in the center of it all, was the “crime.”
Emily wasn’t stealing money.
She wasn’t on the phone.
She was lying flat on her back on the cold tile floor, wearing her sea-green uniform and ridiculously bright pink rubber gloves.
Her dark hair fanned across the floor, her face lit by a smile so wide it almost hurt to look at.