Was that growling?

When she finally recognized the sound, she rolled her eyes, walked out of the bathroom, and moved to her tiny kitchen. She removed a plastic container of French onion dip from the fridge and a hand towel from one of the drawers. She moved to the small, square room that the realtor had spun as the “living room”

There, sitting on the couch and snoring his head off, was her father, Elliot Price. She cocked her head at the old man. His beard looked a bit long and unkempt, and it was white, just like the hair on his head. Beyond that, he looked exactly the same as he had when she was a kid. Maybe a few more wrinkles and worry lines, but the years had been kind to Elliot.

She didn’t expect time to be quite so generous with her, but she didn’t expect to live to be her father’s age either. She didn’t even expect to see her twenty-fifth birthday, let alone her fiftieth.

The TV was on, but the sound was turned all the way down. She saw the headline of New Developments in Cosmetics Lab Fire Investigation. Isabel had watched the original report a few days earlier and had paid attention because the lab wasn’t too far from where the massacre occurred, but there didn’t seem to be any kind of possible connection between mass murder and cosmetic research and development. The fire had destroyed the entire facility and as many as five people were believed dead.

Ignoring the TV, she turned back to her father, and a mischievous glee had replaced her dread and fear. She opened the lid to the French onion dip and scooped a large glob out with two fingers. Then, with a widening smile but without making a sound, she jammed the French onion dip up her father’s nose.

He instantly came awake. Coughing, gagging, and cursing.

She laughed as she handed him the towel.

Still mumbling curses, he snatched the towel from her hand. After wiping the dip from his face and nostrils, he said, “I don’t know why it gives you so much pleasure to pick on an old man.”

“I got my twisted sense of humor from you, and you know it. Besides, Papa, that’s what you get for breaking and entering.”

“I have a key. There was no breaking, just entering.”

“Intruding then.”

“Am I not welcome in my own daughter’s home?”

“Not when you were specifically told to stay away. Why aren’t you at Dingani’s house?”

Elliot threw the towel atop her glass coffee table and furrowed his brows. “Dingani? Yes, I thought you had forgotten who he was. What do they call people like him in law enforcement? A pal? A proctor?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Papa, they call it a partner.”

“But aren’t partners supposed to watch your back, and in your case, keep you from acting like a total moron?”

“Mind your own business.”

“My daughter’s life is my business.”