“She’s sleeping,” she said smoothly. “She had an episode. She’s emotional. She needs rest, not drama.”
“She called me,” I replied. “Undo the chain—or I kick the door in and we explain the damage to the police. Your choice.”
Her jaw tightened. She glanced back at someone inside.
“This is a private matter,” she said coldly. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“I’m her father,” I said, stepping closer. “Open. The. Door.”
She exhaled sharply and slid the chain free.
Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish layered over something sour—stale coffee, sweat, something metallic that made my throat tighten.
“Mark!” she called loudly. “He’s here.”
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