As a kid he used to lie in his bed down the hallway, listening to his parents fight here in the master bedroom. He’d put his head under the pillow, pretending everything was okay. It wasn’t. He’d known that because the next morning his mother’s eyes were always red from crying.
Right now he didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but he knew something was wrong—knew it from the way the hair stood up at the back of his neck.
He got up and pulled on some clothes, not bothering to tuck in his shirt.
Down the hall, Brianna’s door was still shut. No sound came from the office or any other room on this side of the house.
The living room looked a little dusty and unused. The kitchen was as they had left it last night, the faint hint of leftover chicken in the air. Just off the kitchen, the door to the housekeeper’s room where Leila slept was closed tight. Still, something didn’t feel right.
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