Page 47 of At the Edge of Surrender

This little girl’s mother was dead, and Emery had come here to tell me.

That’s why she was at my door. That’s why she freaked out when she saw me.

Nausea curled my guts. A ferocious, twisting turbulence.

“Emmalee Voss,” she pressed. “My sister was Emmalee Voss.”

I wracked my brain for the name.

For a face.

For the trace of a memory.

For the pieces of this disaster to come together, but I couldn’t make a single thing fit.

It wasn’t like I always caught names, but there was no question Emery thought I should know exactly who her sister was.

Because a torrent of disgust heaved from her lungs, and she mumbled, “Oh my God, I knew it. I freaking knew it.”

She grabbed her purse and pushed out of the booth, and she nabbed the picture from the table before I could stop her.

A whirl of blonde whipping around her as she hurried for the door.

While I sat there locked in the shock that wouldn’t let me go.

Darts coming at me from every direction.

Impaling.

Piercing.

I was a father.

Afather.

A wedge of blinding light cut into the darkness when she ripped open the door.

Panic surged in to replace the numbness.

Spirit screaming so loud it was the only thing I could hear.

Urging me to move. To fucking do something.

I finally got my shit together enough that I jumped out of the booth and ran after her.

I grabbed the handle right before the door fully settled closed, and I whipped it back open and ran out.

Quick to scan the area.

I found Emery storming across the small front lot toward the street, tromping through the gravel in her wedged heels.

Repulsion radiated from the hurricane that surrounded her.

Horror and her own sickness.

I rushed behind her, and she started jogging like there was a chance I wouldn’t catch up.

“Emery!” I shouted.

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