My father saw the bruises on my face and his voice went cold. “Sweetheart…
From the corner of the room, Martha just sobbed, her forehead pressed against the floor in a posture of total surrender. She had known my father’s real name from the old days—the name people only whispered in the high-stakes world of international “consulting.”
The Aftermath
Dad turned his back on them, as if they were already gone. He walked to the screen door and opened it for me. The icy mask didn’t break, but his eyes softened just a fraction as he looked at my face.
“Get your things, Emily,” he said. “The car is running.”
“What about them?” I whispered, looking back at the two broken people in my kitchen.
“They aren’t your concern anymore,” Dad said. “They don’t exist. Not in our world.”
As I walked to my father’s car, I saw two black SUVs pull into the driveway behind his sedan. Four men in dark suits stepped out. They didn’t look like police. They looked like the men Dad used to work with—men who specialized in making problems disappear.
I didn’t look back when we drove away. I didn’t need to. For the first time in three years, the weight was gone. I looked at the pristine white bakery box sitting on the seat next to me.
“Is it chocolate?” I asked, my voice finally steady.
Dad gripped the steering wheel, his sleeves still rolled up, showing the faded ink of a tattoo I’d never understood until today.
“Your favorite,” he replied. “And tomorrow, we start over.”
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