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“Not yet,” I murmured. “Not right away.”

“Never, Daddy. Never let me go.”

I tried not to read into her innocent words and brushed a thumb over her neon-pink Band-Aid. Pulling to a stand, I steadied her bike and prompted her feet onto the pedals. Wispy streamers dangled from the handlebars as a little bell chimed with gallantry when I gave it a flick. “I won’t let you go, Squirt. You’re stuck with me.”

A smile bloomed, and Tara schooled her expression with resolve. “Okay,” she said, inhaling a deep breath. “Let’s go!”

I held on to her as we pushed forward, my steps gaining speed as the tires rolled. Her eyes rounded, the breeze picked up, and a warm feeling trickled through me, pulsing with pride and love. “You’ve got this. You’re doing great.”

“Ahh! Don’t let go!” she called out, the bike wobbling side to side as it cut across sidewalk cracks, her pigtails flailing behind her. “I’m going to do it, Daddy. Just don’t let go yet!”

My eyes watered as I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, both of my arms lifting toward the sky.

I’d let go ten seconds ago.

She was already doing it.

I parked my truck in front of the house, then scrubbed a hand over my face. My skin was layered with cool sweat, still sticky from my training session. Whit had called me at the studio twenty minutes ago, alerting me of a “situation” and to hurry over to the house. I’d cut my session short, apologizing to my client and half-running through the parking lot to my truck.

Considering I wasn’t ordered to the nearest hospital, I tried to settle my racing heart, hoping it was something manageable. A leaky pipe. A clogged toilet. Maybe Ladybug had eaten something she shouldn’t have and the girls needed help getting her to the vet.

Whitney wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.

All she’d said was, “Reed, I need you at the house. We have a situation.”

Her tone was flat, unflinching. I knew Whit, so I knew that when she spoke with little emotion, something was wrong. It was the same cool inflection she’d had when Tara had been bitten by the neighbor’s cat on her ninth birthday. Given Whitney’s blasé attitude, I’d assumed it was a minor nick. Instead, there was horror-movie-level blood loss, swelling, and redness casing up the length of her arm.

Now, I could only wonder if I was about to walk into a pinprick or a bloodbath as I stared at the old two-story house with cream shutters and a blue door, imagining what situation lurked on the other side of it.

Pocketing my keys, I exited the truck and jogged up the familiar walkway to the front door with my heartbeats thundering in my ears. I hesitated before twisting the knob and shuffling inside.

Deep breath.

Swallowing, I stepped through the threshold and glanced around the living area. “Hey, what’s…” My words tapered off. Frozen in place, I scanned all three ashen faces staring back at me as fear crept inside my bones. “What happened?”

Instinct had me searching for Ladybug, thinking the worst, but the golden furball was sprawled out on the couch with her snout tucked between her paws. She didn’t run to me, didn’t shimmy her butt or wag her tail. Even the dog sensed the cloud of dread hovering over the room.

I blinked several times, closing the door and stepping forward. Silence greeted me. Whitney stood off to the side with her arms crossed, her red-rimmed eyes the only indication she was upset. Halley sat beside Ladybug on the couch, slouched over, her head in her hands.

And Tara…

“How could you?” My daughter stormed across the room and beelined toward me, her expression a mask of indignation, her eyes razorblades. “How could you?” she repeated, sharper than the last.

Stunned, I shook my head as confusion rippled through me. “What’s going on?”

Tara glared at me. “You tell me.” Then she stalked forward, lessening the gap between us, and slammed something against my chest. “Explain.”

My eyes were glued to her face.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“Explain!” she demanded, her fists balled at her sides.

I forced the haze to evaporate and glanced down at a photograph I’d been unknowingly clinging to. I stared at it. Processed it. Registered the gravity of what I’d just walked into as the image trembled between my fingers.

Fuck.

Me.