The suitcase wheels made a soft, uneven sound against the hardwood floor as I stepped inside.

Emma’s house always smelled faintly of clean laundry and the lemon polish her father used on the furniture. Today it felt quieter than usual. No music from her room. No television in the background. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the street.

Daniel Hale stood in the kitchen doorway, drying his hands on a towel. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair threaded with a little gray at the temples. He looked the same as he always had — calm, composed, a little distant.

The kind of...