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So when Sunday morning came and I still hadn’t heard from him, I decided I was going over.

I didn’t call first. Partly because I wanted to surprise him. Mostly because I was tired of waiting for one of us to stop being stubborn.

Elena had mentioned that Dad gave everyone the week off. The cooks, the housekeepers, even her. Dad worked his staff hard, even if he paid them ridiculously well, and the house didn’t exactly need several people running around it every day.

Now I was grateful. At least there wouldn’t be an audience when I apologized.

I stopped on the way and picked up lunch from one of Dad’s favorite places. It was a peace offering, although I planned on pretending it wasn’t.

By the time I pulled into his driveway, I’d already rehearsed the conversation several times. I’d tell him I was sorry for walking out. He’d tell me he was sorry for whatever he’d said. I’d remind him that being my father didn’t automatically make him right about everything. He’d tell me being twenty-two didn’t automatically make me an adult. Then we’d eat.

That was how this was supposed to go.

His car was in the driveway. He was home. Probably ignoring the phone because he was still pissed at me.

Fine. I could work with pissed.

I grabbed the food and my purse and headed toward the house. I unlocked the front door with my key.

“Dad?”

I stepped inside and kicked the door closed behind me.

“I brought lunch, so if you’re still mad at me, you’re going to have to be mad while eating.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

The house felt strange without anyone else there. Dad hated complete silence. There was almost always music playing somewhere or the television going in a room nobody was watching.

Today there was nothing. Something uncomfortable moved through my stomach.

I started walking through the house. The living room was empty. So was the dining room. I checked upstairs, calling his name as I went, but his bedroom was empty too. The bed was made. By the time I came back downstairs, I wasn’t annoyed anymore.

I was scared.

“Dad?”

Then I noticed his study door was open. I stood at the end of the hallway staring at it. Dad usually closed the study when he wasn’t using it.

“Dad?”

I started toward it. There were photographs along the hallway I’d passed thousands of times. Me as a baby in Dad’s arms. Mom standing beside him at some hotel opening. The three of us before the accident. My high school graduation.

Something was wrong.

I knew it now.

I reached the study.

“Dad?”

Then I saw him and everything stopped. For a second, my mind refused to process what I was looking at.

My father’s body hanging in the middle of the room.

The bag slipped from my hand. “Dad?”