He turned slowly toward the bedroom. Eight-year-old Emily Harper stood half-hidden behind the door, her body angled away as if she expected to be pulled back at any moment. Her shoulders curved inward, chin lowered, eyes locked on the carpet like it might swallow her whole.
“Emily,” Daniel said softly, forcing calm into his voice while his heart began to pound. “Hey. I’m here now. You can come to me.”
She didn’t move.
He set the suitcase down carefully, as if even that sound might scare her, and crossed the room one measured step at a time. When he knelt in front of her, she flinched—and that single movement sent a jolt of alarm through him.
“What’s hurting, sweetheart?” he asked.
Her fingers twisted the hem of her pajama shirt, stretching the fabric until her knuckles turned white.
“My back,” she whispered. “It hurts all the time. Mom said it was an accident. She said I shouldn’t tell you. She said you’d be angry… and that bad things would happen.”
A cold heaviness settled in his chest.
Daniel reached out instinctively, wanting to pull her into his arms—but the moment his hand brushed her shoulder, Emily gasped and recoiled.
“Please—don’t,” she cried softly. “It hurts.”