I saw the front door.
It was open.
Not kicked in. Not hanging from the frame. Just cracked an inch, as though someone had pulled it shut without caring whether it latched.
The father in me wanted to call out. The soldier in me stopped the sound before it reached my throat.
Behind me, a dog barked twice. A delivery van rolled past. The sprinkler kept tapping the same strip of grass as if nothing terrible had ever learned our address.
I stepped onto the porch and pushed the door with two fingers.
“Harper?”
My voice fell flat in the foyer.
The house smelled wrong—wet, sharp, metallic. I recognized it before my mind allowed me to name it, and for one second, I hated every place that had trained me to know it so quickly.
Blood.
I moved through the living room because training does not care what your heart
I Came Home Early To Surprise My Daughter For Her 16th Birthday
