peace.
Whatever was happening behind that steel door, it was not what my racing mind had built on the drive over.
A child who was being harmed does not run toward the door laughing.
So I did the hardest thing a frightened father can do.
I waited.
I sat in that Range Rover for ninety minutes, and I watched, and nothing sinister happened. No other cars. No other people. Just a windowless building in an industrial district, and my daughter inside it with her grandmother and a dead man.
When they came out, Fiona was carrying a paper — a drawing. She was showing it to the man, and he was nodding seriously, the way you nod at a child’s art when you actually care.
