Mark leaned closer. “You’re tired. Go home before you embarrass yourself.”
There it was—the voice men use when they think age has made a woman harmless.
I had heard it in courtrooms for thirty-one years, from liars with clean collars and dirty hands.
“I want to see Emily,” I said.
“You can’t.” His tone sharpened. “She left. She asked me not to tell you where.”
“Show me her message.”
“I deleted it.”
“Convenient.”
His smile vanished. “Get off my porch.”
I stepped back slowly, like a defeated mother accepting it. Vanessa smirked.
But as I turned toward my car, I heard it.
A muffled moan.
From the locked garage.
My hand froze on the car door.
Mark’s face shifted before he could stop it. Fear flashed, then anger.
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