resting.”
My breath caught.
Uncle.
Not stepfather. Not a stranger.
I stared at the screen, my mind racing through the fragments of Evan’s past that he had fed me over endless cups of diner coffee during our early dates.
“My younger sister vanished when we were children… run away or taken… the house we grew up in never stopped being haunted.”
Evan wasn’t just a man with a tragic past. He was running an obsessive, decades-long investigation into a missing child case that had torn his family apart when he was ten years old. And he hadn’t married me because he loved me or wanted to build a safe home for Emma.
He had married me because my daughter—with her strange, fractured sleepwalking episodes, her uncanny ability to stare into empty hallways, and her repressed memories of things she shouldn’t have known—was somehow
