Inside, I heard shouting. Then laughter.
The door swung open.
Mark Sterling stood there. He was holding a tumbler of scotch. He was wearing a white dress shirt, unbuttoned, stained with what I knew was my daughter’s blood.
He looked at me and sneered.
“Well, look who it is,” he slurred. “The gardener. Did Lily run crying to daddy? Is she in the truck?”
He peered past me into the rain.
“Go get her, old man. Tell her if she crawls back on her knees and apologizes for bleeding on my rug, I might let her sleep in the guest room.”
I stood there, letting the rain soak my gray hair. I made my posture slump slightly. I rounded my shoulders. I looked down.
“Mark,” I said, my voice trembling—a perfect affectation of fear. “She’s hurt bad. Why? Why did you do it?”
Mark laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound.
