That afternoon I casually asked Emily how her day went. She answered quickly, almost rehearsed: “Same as always. Math homework. History is boring.” When I asked more questions, she stiffened and snapped, “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” before disappearing into her room.
It became clear that confronting her directly wouldn’t work.
The next morning, I decided to follow her.
I watched as she boarded the bus, rode all the way to school, and stepped off with the other students. For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d misunderstood everything. But then she turned away from the school entrance and walked straight toward a pickup truck parked nearby.
My heart dropped. I followed the truck.
It pulled into a gravel parking area by the lake. I prepared myself for whatever I might find—and then I saw who was driving.
Mark. Her father.
I walked over, a mixture of worry and anger bubbling inside me. Emily looked shocked when she spotted me. Mark raised his hands slightly, guilt written across his face. “She asked me to pick her up. She didn’t want to go in.”
