Now she was grateful.

As she looked around at the familiar Early American antiques and the wide-plank floors and the atmosphere of casual grace, the evening ahead stretched out into infinity. Which was what happened when all you had before you was a whole lot of wait-and-see: Jim and Isaac would be getting in touch with her father at some point, but there was no telling when. Or what the news would be.

Gruesome. How gruesome was all of this.

God, typically, she thought of death in terms of accidents or disease. Not tonight. Tonight it was all about the violent and the premeditated, and she didn’t like this world. It was hard enough to get through the day when only Mother Nature and Murphy’s Law were after you.

She had a really bad feeling about all of this.

“Would you like something to eat now?” her father asked. “Or would you prefer to freshen up?”

So strange. Usually when she came into this home, she treated it as her own, going to the refrigerator or the coffeepot or the stove without a thought. It felt odd and uncomfortable to be treated as a guest.

Glancing over her shoulder, she stared at her father, tracing the handsome lines of his face. In the awkward silence of the armored house, it dawned on her how alone they both were. For their sake, they really needed to get back to being family from this place of being foreigners.

“Why don’t I make us both some dinner.”

Her father’s eyes watered a little and he cleared his throat. “That would be lovely. I’ll just take this up to your room.”

“Thank you.”

As he passed by, her father reached out and touched her arm, squeezing it ever so slightly—which was his version of a hug. And she accepted the gesture by placing her palm over his hand. Just as they had always done.

After he went up the front stairs, she headed to the kitchen feeling shaky and off her game . . . but she was up on her feet and moving forward.

Which, at the end of the day, was all you got, wasn’t it.

There was just one thing missing . . . and she paused to look over her shoulder again. Then she strode into the kitchen and checked the table in the alcove . . . and the long stretch of counter where the cooktop was . . . and the foot of the back stairs . . .

“Daniel?” she hissed. “Where are you?”

Maybe he didn’t want to be in their father’s house. But if he could show up at the Four Seasons for a charity benefit and then at an underground fighting ring, he could damn well drag his ass here.

“I need you,” she said. “I need to see you. . . .”

She waited. Called his name quietly a couple more times. But it appeared as if only the double ovens and the refrigerator were listening to her.