Daniel Rourke kept both hands steady on the wheel of his old Ford. The three-hour drive from Millbrook hadn’t tired him, though his shoulders ached the way they always did now. At fifty-five, after twenty years in the army and another decade running his own repair shop, his body carried the marks of hard living. His hair was going gray, his skin lined, but his eyes—sharp and blue—still saw everything.
For weeks, his daughter Anna had been distant. She barely picked up his calls, and when she did, her replies were short: Just busy with the house, Dad. Don’t worry. It wasn’t like her. Anna was open, warm, quick to laugh. Now her words sounded as if someone else had written them.
He drove into Rosehill, a town of big houses and long driveways. Daniel had visited only twice since Anna’s wedding, and both times, her husband’s family made him feel like an intruder.
At the end of Maple Lane stood the Morgan estate, a grand house with perfect lawns and stone walls. Daniel parked his dusty truck next to a spotless black BMW.
The door opened, and Margaret Morgan appeared. Her silver hair was smooth, her white blouse crisp, her eyes cool.
“Daniel,” she said, smiling politely. “What a surprise.”
“I’m here for my daughter,” he replied. “Thought I’d drop in.”
Her smile stayed thin. “She’s… outside. In the little garden house.”
Daniel brushed past her without waiting. Inside, the air conditioning chilled him, and he noticed right away—the photos on the walls showed Anna with her husband, with the Morgans. But none with him. Not one.
Through the kitchen window he saw a small wooden shed at the back of the yard. He walked quickly across the grass, his chest tight. He knocked.
“Anna?”
The door opened. His daughter stood there, sweat dripping down her forehead. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks red from the heat. Behind her, he saw a cot, a box of clothes, and a small fan struggling to move the heavy air. A thermometer on the wall showed 40°C.
Her voice was a whisper. “Dad, you can’t be here. Margaret doesn’t allow—”
