“Claire,” he said, blocking the entrance with one arm. “What a surprise.”
“Where is my daughter?”
His smile twitched. “She’s on a trip.”
“What trip?”
“Some wellness thing. You know Emily. Always dramatic.”
I stared at him. Mark had always called her dramatic when she cried, sensitive when she disagreed, confused when she caught him lying. He wore charm like cologne—expensive and toxic.
“She didn’t tell me,” I said.
“She needed space.” His eyes cooled. “From everyone.”
Behind him, his sister Vanessa stepped into view, barefoot, wearing Emily’s blue cardigan.
My daughter’s cardigan.
“Claire,” Vanessa said sweetly, “you shouldn’t just show up. It’s unhealthy.”
I looked at the sweater, then at her mouth.
“Take that off.”
She laughed. “Excuse me?”
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