When Daniel Cross stepped onto the porch, the first thing he noticed was that the front door was slightly ajar.
The second thing—
was his daughter’s arm lying motionless just inside.
His suitcase slipped from his hand and hit the wood with a sharp crack.
“Emma!”
He rushed forward, shoving the door open.
Eight-year-old Emma Cross lay crumpled on the hardwood floor, one shoe missing, her backpack half open beside her. A faint bruise darkened her temple. Her skin looked too pale. Too still.
“Emma… come on, sweetheart…” Daniel whispered, dropping to his knees and turning her gently.
No response.
His fingers trembled as he checked her pulse.
There.
Faint—but there.
Relief barely had time to settle before a voice cut through the room.
“She’ll wake up.”
Daniel turned slowly.
His wife, Laura, stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her expression flat—almost bored.
