I was still smiling, cleaning up the kitchen, when there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find two uniformed officers standing under the yellow porch light.
My stomach dropped instantly—that cold, involuntary feeling you get when you see police at your door late at night.
The taller officer spoke first.
“Are you Brad? Ainsley’s father?”
“Yes, Officer. What happened?”
They exchanged a glance.
Then he said, “Sir, we’re here to talk about your daughter. Do you have any idea what she has done?”
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.
“My… my daughter? I… I don’t understand…”
“Sir, please relax,” he added quickly, reading my face. “She’s not in any trouble. I want to be clear about that upfront. But we felt you needed to know something.”
That didn’t calm me down.
Not even a little.
